


Skin in the Game

by Margot_Lescargot



Series: Each brand-new bright tomorrow [1]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: (alongside other stuff), Case fic (of sorts), Gen, Getting Together, Humour, M/M, Post-Book: False Value, Post-Canon, Procedural, an outrageously flirty Frenchman, blink-and-you'll-miss-it spoiler for FV, can be read as standalone, canon compliant to end False Value, entirely gratuitous forging, glamour: use and resistance thereof, museums and opera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margot_Lescargot/pseuds/Margot_Lescargot
Summary: Seawoll goes undercover for the Folly.
Relationships: Peter Grant & Sahra Guleed, Thomas Nightingale/Alexander Seawoll
Series: Each brand-new bright tomorrow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2115891
Comments: 14
Kudos: 45





	1. The Hook

**Author's Note:**

> The action of this takes place in mid-June 2016, so about four months after the events of False Value.

‘Remind me again what this has to do with my investigation.’

They were in Belgravia to report the Falcon assessment of a murder scene. Not a pretty one by any means, but at least one with no discernible evidence of magic. Sometimes, it seemed, people just wanted to kill other people and chickens at the same time. 

Assessment duly reported, they were still sitting in Seawoll’s office.

Sahra and Peter exchanged a look. 

‘Well,’ said Peter slowly. He glanced across to Nightingale. ‘Nothing as such, guv.’ 

‘Riiiight.’ Seawoll swung his feet off the desk and turned to look at them. ‘Forgive me if I seem to be labouring the point here, but why exactly are you telling me this?’

“This” being the identity and possible KAs of a target the SAU had had its eye on for a while, and which had just come into range without warning.

‘Um..’ Peter faltered, as Seawoll turned a searching look on Sahra who opened her mouth to say something and then changed her mind and closed it again.

Nightingale stepped into the breach. 

‘You see, the thing is, Alexander-'

‘Yes, Thomas,’ he said, in a dangerously quiet tone. ‘Please do tell me the thing that I need to see.’

Nightingale halted, and bit the inside of his cheek before continuing. He cleared his throat. 

‘Routine activity on unrelated Falcon matters has, somewhat unexpectedly, thrown up the current whereabouts of this, um, mark that Peter has just been telling you about.’

‘Who is?’

‘Someone we have wanted to speak to for some time now. Name of Martel, as Peter says. Laurent Martel. French national, we think. Difficult to be absolutely certain. Links to the US also. In any event, his name has come up several times in the last year or so – initially in connection with Chorley’s cache, and then, again, following the incident at the warehouse in February.’ He paused to make sure Seawoll fully understood the implications.

‘Go on.’

Peter took over. ‘This guy’s name keeps coming up when we talk to… people. About rose jars. Do you know what that means?’

Seawoll sighed. ‘I know enough. Carry on.’

‘Well, basically, we’ve been trying to track this guy down for over a year, to TIE him in connection with Fretwork if nothing else. But we’ve got nothing. He has no criminal record, no security flags, no returns on HOLMES at all. I tried Agent Reynolds, and she couldn’t turn up anything either.’

‘You really do want to talk to this bloke.’

‘Yes sir, we do. We tried the Border Agency as well, to see if we could get anything on his movements in and out of the country. But they wouldn’t speak to us.’

Seawoll snorted. ‘Well no fucking surprise there.’

‘No,’ agreed Peter. ‘But, to be honest, given what we do know about him, I doubt he’d have shown up on their system anyway.’

‘What _do_ you know about him?’ said Seawoll, betraying a degree of reluctant curiosity.

‘Primarily that he’s, er, Falcon-aligned.’

‘Well I’d guessed that much.’

‘You remember Reynard Fossman?’

‘Unfortunately, yes. Please tell me this isn’t another bloody fairy story come to life.’

‘Well no.’ He considered. ‘Or, that is, we don’t _think_ so.’

‘You don’t think so?’ spluttered Seawoll.

Sahra shot Peter a warning look. ‘No, we don’t,’ she said. ‘But their names _are_ mentioned in the same breath an awful lot.’ Before Seawoll could ask, she added ‘And, of course, we’ve questioned Fossman about Martel - several times - but he claims never to have heard of him.’

‘Well that’s about as reliable as a nine-bob note.’ He picked up a paper clip from his desk and started fiddling with it. ‘So you’ve been on a hiding to nothing trying to find this bloke and then, what, he just turns up on your doorstep?’

‘Something like that,’ said Peter. ‘As you know, we, er, like to maintain a presence in some of the more esoteric spots in town.’

‘Community outreach?’ said Seawoll with a wry smile.

‘Yeah. Anyway, there’s these, um, markets-'

‘The nazareths. Yeah, I know about them. You’ve been corrupting my Sahra by dragging her along.’ 

‘Yes, well,’ said Peter, wisely ignoring the accusation, ‘It helps us keep an eye on what’s going on. See who’s about. Who’s selling what, who wants to buy, all of that. It’s more of a social thing really. We knew there was one last week, and when I dropped by..'

‘This bloke was there?’

Peter nodded. ‘Yeah. And he made me straight away. I recognised him from the few photos we’ve managed to get hold of, but he knew _exactly_ who I was. Greeted me by name.’ 

‘Just to show you that he could,’ said Seawoll thoughtfully.

‘Most likely,’ Peter nodded. ‘Anyway we exchanged a few wary pleasantries. He didn’t hang around though. I mean, he was _very_ charming, and didn’t make it look too much like he was rushing away because I’d arrived…’

‘But he totally was,’ supplied Sahra.

‘Yeah, but it’s not as if I could have asked him to accompany me for questioning anyway. Not in the nazareth. They get very touchy about that sort of thing.’

‘So, he was there to flog some rose jars then, I take it?’ said Seawoll.

Nightingale picked up. ‘Well that’s what one would think, naturally, but no.’

‘No?’

‘No,’ said Peter. ‘Turns out he’s looking to buy. Not rose jars though. A wizard’s staff. Or that’s the word he’s put about anyway.’

‘He says he wants to buy, but that could just as easily mean that he already has one, wants to have it authenticated perhaps, but doesn’t want to advertise the fact,’ suggested Nightingale.

‘Which makes him doubly interesting to you lot. Yeah, I get it.’ He was still twisting the paper clip out of shape.

‘And so,’ said Peter, ‘what we really need is someone to meet with this person. Sound him out. Find out what he knows.’ He paused. ‘And we need to do it quickly, because we run the risk of him disappearing again.’

‘With you so far.’

Sahra chimed in. ‘But it has to be someone unknown. That is, someone not known in the demi-monde.’

‘In the what now?’

‘Just someone whose face isn’t known. In certain circles. Peter and DCI Nightingale, they’re not exactly low-key. Nor me these days probably,’ she added ruefully. 

‘All understood. And at the risk of repeating myself, you’re telling me this why?’

There was silence. Eventually Nightingale broke it.

‘Well, in the circumstances, we would like you to, um – if you felt able, of course – to, er,’ he shot a look at Peter who gave an encouraging nod. ‘To meet up with this chap. To, er, go undercover for us. For the Folly I mean.’

Seawoll blinked. ‘You fucking what?’

Peter stepped in. ‘We can’t do it. If he knows who I am, he’s definitely gonna know Nightingale. And we need someone believable, someone with authority.’

Seawoll gave him a look.

‘What I mean is, he’s asking after staves, he’s asking specifically about the Sons of Weyland – they’re the people who made them - they were based in Manchester. So if we could field someone who could credibly pass as an affiliate of Weyland, someone from Manchester, say…’

‘I’m not _from_ fucking Manchester!’ thundered Seawoll, unable to control himself.

‘If you’ll forgive me for saying so, Alexander,’ Nightingale cut in smoothly, ‘you will be sufficiently convincing for our purposes. I appreciate that this is a somewhat unorthodox request, but all it will require is one meeting with Martel, to see what you can glean from him. That’s all. And a bit of prep of course.’

‘I do have another bloody job, you know, if everyone else here has forgotten,’ he said indignantly. ‘Why don’t you use your “contacts”, find out where he’s staying and just go and fucking talk to him?’

‘With all due respect, sir, he’s not going to tell _us_ anything, is he? He’ll need to think he’s getting something in return, and then he might let something slip. To someone who's not Folly. Hence, um, you.'

‘And guv,’ said Sahra after a moment. ‘You remember what happened in the Medways. We can’t risk that happening again. Not if we can avoid it, not if there’s a chance, at least, of getting info about the supply line.’

Seawoll regarded her through narrowed eyes. ‘Are you trying to emotionally blackmail me, young Sahra?’ 

‘Who? Me, guv? No, guv,’ she said wide-eyed.

‘Hmmm. Well played.’ He sighed, and sat back in his chair. The paper clip lay abandoned in several pieces. ‘Alright, fine – fucking hell - what do you need me to do?’ he said resignedly. 

‘We set up a meeting,’ said Peter eagerly. ‘With you as some sort of emissary or whatever of Weyland. A relative or descendant, maybe.’

‘Set up how?’ 

‘We use Zach Palmer as intermediary.’

Seawoll rolled his eyes. ‘The one who was nobbing Lesley? Oh I can see that going well.’

‘There’s no reason for him to double cross us,’ interjected Nightingale. ‘It really would not be worth his while to do so, and he is more than aware of that.'

Sahra took over. ‘Zach’ll be fine. We only need him to set it up. Then we get you in front of Martel, and you-'

‘Work my natural charms on him?’ he raised his eyebrows.

‘Something like that,’ she grinned.

Seawoll hmmed, then looked over at Nightingale. ‘What next?’

‘We'll need to do a full briefing - are you able to come over to the Folly? I doubt that Palmer will manage to get anything in train for a few days, but it pays to be ready. How about tomorrow?’

‘Sorry, no can do. I’m busy tomorrow.’

‘Very well,’ said Nightingale, with the slightest hint of impatience. ‘Sunday?’

‘Fine. What time?’

‘Er,’ Nightingale looked over at Peter. ‘Perhaps after lunch? Then that gives us all afternoon should we need it.’

‘Ok, I’ll be there about two then. Unless something comes up. Satisfied? Now piss off and let me get on with what I’m supposed to be doing.’

They filed out, Peter and Sahra in front. Nightingale paused when he got to the door and looked back. ‘Thank you, Alexander. I'm aware that we owe you a debt for this.’

Seawoll snorted. ‘Too bloody right you do.’


	2. The Set-up

At ten minutes to two on Sunday, Sahra took the Folly stairs two at a time and hurried into the mundane library. She plonked down a impressive-looking binder on the main desk next to where Abigail was already sitting, squinting at her laptop.

‘You’ve done a binder?’ said Peter strolling over. He started flicking through. ‘Are those indexed tabs? Are they _colour-coordinated_?’

Sahra slapped his hand away. ‘Have you ever prepped a direct personal briefing for Seawoll?’

He thought. ‘Er, no I don’t think so actually.’

‘Well I have.’ She turned. ‘Alright Abigail?’

‘Um.. yeah,’ said Abigail, without looking up. Still staring at the screen she made one or two notes in indecipherable shorthand in the squared notebook next to her. She hmmed. Sahra looked inquiringly at Peter, who shrugged.

‘Where’s Nightingale?’

‘About. He’s trying Lady Helena again. She hasn’t been picking up. It could just mean she’s out of the country of course.’

‘Yeah,’ said Sahra absently. She started rearranging the chairs around the main desk. ‘Hold on, where’s Zach?’

‘I told him to get here at four. I wanted to get through the more sensitive stuff without having his ears flapping away in the corner.’

She gave him a favourable look. ‘Good thinking.’ She frowned suddenly. ‘Do you think he’ll come?’

‘Well we’re screwed if he doesn’t, but yeah. Like Nightingale said, it’s not worth his while to cross us. And it’s harder for him to disappear now than it was. Plus, I told him that Molly would give him a care package to take away if he did.’

On cue, Molly chose that moment to sail into the room, bearing a large tray of tea things, Foxlove trailing in her wake, slightly mutinously carrying the overflow. Molly halted in the middle of the room, looked briefly between Peter and Sahra, and then transferred an inquiring gaze to Sahra. 

Sahra surveyed the room. ‘Just on the table by the window I think, thanks Molly. Then people can help themselves and we can keep the main desk clear for papers.’ Molly nodded and began to set out cups, saucers, and innumerable plates of cakes and pastries.

Peter eyed the spread uncertainly. ‘We’ve, um, only just had lunch, Molly.’

Molly favoured him with a look of blank incomprehension, and continued with her task. Having arranged everything to her satisfaction, she ushered Foxglove out of the room, indicating to Sahra that she would return shortly with hot drinks.

‘Thanks Molly,’ said Sahra.

‘Who put you in charge?’ said Peter, slightly huffily once Molly had gone.

Sahra grinned. ‘What can I say? Some people just recognise a natural leader when they see one.’

Peter kissed his teeth and was about to respond in a manner not befitting that of a constable to a ranking sergeant, when an unmistakable voice was heard drifting up the stairs.

‘..and how’s your sister finding things? Settled in, has she?’

Molly appeared at the doorway, Seawoll looming behind her, in weekend uniform of jeans and an enormous sweater. He walked in and looked around.   
  
‘Bloody hell, it’s been a while.’ He blew out a breath. ‘Not since Jennifer.’ He spotted the others hovering. ‘Peter. Sahra.’ He nodded as they sirred him in return.

His gaze fell on Abigail. His presence was, it seemed, the only thing that could drag her attention away from her laptop. She crossed her arms and eyed him suspiciously.

‘And who’s this?’ he said.

Peter stirred to attention. ‘Sorry – this is Abigail. My cousin, Abigail Kamara.’

Abigail was preparing the default look she reserved for all adults in positions of authority – a healthy mixture of scepticism and disdain – when Seawoll advanced towards her with one hand outstretched. ‘Alex Seawoll. Nice to meet you Abigail.’

She looked down at the hand curiously, and then slowly shook it.

‘… and junior apprentice,’ Peter was saying.

‘Apprentice?’ Seawoll’s head snapped back towards Peter in surprise, then he returned his gaze to Abigail appraisingly.

She nodded defiantly. ‘Yeah.’

Seawoll grinned. ‘Bloody hell. You’ve got your work cut out with those two. Good luck.’ He winked at her and got a tentative, if still vaguely dubious, smile in return.

‘Right then,’ he said, pulling out a chair opposite Abigail and getting down to business. ‘What have you got for me?’

Sahra pushed the binder across the desk to him. 

‘Good girl,’ he said approvingly and started leafing through it. She flashed a smug smile at Peter before sitting down.

‘Your boss not joining us?’ said Seawoll without looking up.

‘Yeah. He’ll be along in a minute. I think he’s on the phone to Helena Linden-Limmer, see if she can tell us anything more about Martel. You remember her, sir?’

‘Hmm,’ he said absently. He took out a pen and started making notes in the margins, underlining here, an asterisk there, and - so it looked to Peter, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder as he placed a cup of tea at his elbow – at one point an exclamation mark.

‘Ok,’ said Seawoll, looking up again after a few minutes. ‘Let’s make a start. What else have you got on this bloke? I'll need everything.’

Sahra nodded. ‘Laurent Martel. Caucasian. Presents as early forties. French. We think. Is always described as French, but we’ve been unable to trace any birth records-‘

She was interrupted by Nightingale’s entrance. His concession to weekend dressing consisted of a tweed jacket, grey flannels, a white shirt and no tie. He appeared to be on the phone still. 

‘… merely quid pro quo, Helena,’ he was saying. He waved a gesture of general apology to the room. ‘Yes…. Yes, of course. Very well, I’ll expect Caroline… When you can spare her, yes. Good day.’

He hung up. ‘Sorry about that. I lost track of time slightly.’ He moved to the window and poured a cup of tea.

Peter eyed him with misgiving. ‘What did you offer to Lady Helena?’

‘Nothing.' He took a seat. 'Nothing you need worry about at any rate. Alexander, thank you for coming. I apologise for interrupting, Sahra. Please do carry on.’

She did. ‘Yeah, so, Martel’s French, to all intents and purposes. There may be some link to the US. Santa Cruz, specifically. But – as with most things – that’s only anecdotal.’

Seawoll made a note.

‘His name keeps cropping up, but we haven’t been able to place him conclusively at any particular scene.’

‘When you say his name keeps cropping up, what do you mean? In ongoing investigations?’

‘Er, not quite.’

Seawoll raised an eyebrow. 

‘In, er, Abigail’s research.’

‘In Abigail’s…’ He stared over at Abigail, who looked studiously down at the table. ‘Now then,’ he began, ‘I can’t imagine there’s any way an unqualified teenager would be allowed unauthorised access to confidential – _live_ – police files. Would she?’

Nightingale regarded him blandly. ‘I don’t see how that would be possible, do you?' He took a sip of tea. 'Whatever could have given you that idea?’ 

Seawoll stared at him for a long moment. ‘Very clever. Alright. Forget I asked. I’m fairly sure I’m better off not knowing.’

He let out a breath. ‘In what circumstances does his name crop up then?’

He spoke to Abigail, who looked taken aback to be addressed directly. She hesitated, then looked over at Sahra, who smiled and nodded.

‘Well, um,’ she sat up slightly and squared her shoulders. ‘There’s no distinct pattern, yeah, and I had to do a serious amount of digging to get what we’ve got even-' Peter winced, but she was entirely oblivious. ‘But though he’s never mentioned in interviews, right, the same name keeps turning up on lists of KAs or, more often, linked on social media accounts or whatever. Every time there’s an incident – a relevant incident -’ she added knowingly, ‘he’s always about two steps removed. Never close enough to be pulled in – or not so far as I can tell.’ 

‘Because he’s got no known address?’ suggested Seawoll.

‘Yeah, maybe,’ she nodded. ‘It’s a definite possibility. Whatever, he doesn’t want people getting in his business.’

He smiled and made a note. ‘You said “incident”, what do you mean?’

‘I’ve only gone back two years so far, but anything where rose jars have turned out to be involved, or things with a similar enough description. Or where there’s been certain or, um, particular patterns of behaviour evidenced in the forensics.’

Seawoll wrinkled his brow. ‘Why did you start looking so specifically?’

She shrugged. ‘Because Peter and Mr Nightingale told me to.’

Peter stepped in. ‘We were looking at potentially linked cases anyway, based on what I got from Agent Reynolds last year. But then when we started asking around the markets and such, along Portobello – even contacts on Cork Street and St James’s – about the person to go to for rose jars, those that had heard of them, they all came out with the same name.’

‘Martel?’

‘Yup.’

‘Hmm.’ Seawoll put down his pen and looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t want to sound like a killjoy or anything, but I have to ask: why hasn’t this been flagged in the proper channels? Why hasn’t it been brought to the attention of the SIO of the relevant investigation? Or investigations plural?’ 

Nightingale, on whom Seawoll’s gaze rested, responded. ‘On what grounds Alexander? None of it lies in the Folly’s jurisdiction, and I don’t need to remind you, I’m sure, that – even when directly affected - other forces view our involvement as unwelcome at best.’

Peter interposed swiftly. ‘Inspector Nightingale’s right – there’s no justification for connecting the cases formally as yet. Martel’s not a nominal on HOLMES, or any other database. He doesn’t have form or anything else we can point to. Obviously, as soon as we get anything concrete then we’ll feed it along. Of course.’

Seawoll said nothing.

‘And if I'm honest,’ Peter continued, ‘he got to be a bit of a bogeyman for us. We got to the point where we even wondered if he existed. Just the one man I mean.’

Seawoll nodded. ‘Ok. I get it. Like Keyser Söze.’

Four pairs of eyes regarded him blankly. ‘Who?’ ventured Sahra.

He sighed. ‘Never mind.’ He stood and stretched. ‘I need a refill. Anybody else?’

They shook their heads.

‘So,’ he said to Peter when he was seated again. ‘After all that, you just ran into him? Your bogeyman. How did you recognise him? You said you had some visuals.’ He tapped the binder. ‘But I don’t see anything in here.’

‘No,’ said Peter carefully. ‘They’re best viewed electronically. Abigail?’

Abigail picked up her laptop and carried it around the table, taking the seat next to Seawoll. She started scrolling through a series of grainy shots, clearly surveillance. All the pictures, five or six in total, showed the same man. White, but swarthy. Dark-haired and in fit early middle-age.

‘Hold it there,’ said Seawoll, as Abigail reached the clearest shot they had. Martel was leaning forward to open a car door and looking suspiciously down the street, in the direction of the unknown photographer, in some unspecified European city. 

Seawoll bent and peered closely at the screen, brow furrowed. 

‘And you say he knew who you were right away? Noone told him?’

Peter thought. ‘It’s not impossible, but no, I don’t think so. I’d only just walked in. He didn’t just know my name, but who I was, what I did. Knew who my governor was – even that I’m known as Nightingale’s Starling-’

Seawoll, who had sat back to take a sip of tea, spat out some of it inelegantly at this. Abigail snatched her laptop out of harm’s way, maternally, and only a few rogue drops stained a corner of the papers in front of him.

‘Nightingale’s _what_?’ 

Sahra handed him a napkin. ‘Starling,’ she clarified, emphasising the sound. ‘ _St_ \- starling.’

‘Fucking hell,’ said Seawoll. ‘That’s unfortunate.’

Nightingale grimaced. ‘Yes, we know. Whoever thought it up was clearly trying to be humorous.’

Seawoll’s lips twitched. ‘Yeah, well.’ He turned to Abigail. ‘Sorry about that. Can you open it up again for me?’

She pushed the laptop back in front of him and he squinted at it once more, this time focusing not on the man in the photograph, but on the insignia stamped in the corner of the image, of all the images – a globe in front of a sword and a pair of scales.

‘Is that…?’ He sat back and regarded Abigail narrowly. She jutted out her jaw before nodding slowly.

‘Impressive,’ he said after a moment. ‘Yeah. I can see why you wouldn’t want hard copies lying around.’ She shrugged, with an air of nonchalance that was fairly convincing.

He turned back to Peter. ‘He wasn’t hostile you said?’

‘No. Far from it. He was friendly. Very friendly in fact.’

‘You _said_ he was flirting with you,’ said Sahra mischievously.

Peter reddened slightly. ‘Well, yeah, he was. A bit.' He cleared his throat. 'When you meet him, sir, he may well do the same with you. Flirt I mean, be suggestive. Inappropriate even.’

Seawoll smiled. ‘It’s alright, lad. If someone gives me the glad-eye, I think I’ll be able to cope. I won’t clutch my pearls and swoon, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘There, um, might be more to it than just being inappropriate,’ said Sahra hesitantly. ‘He might be fae, or part fae. If he is, that could make him – potentially - _literally_ suggestive.’

Seawoll looked perplexed. ‘Fae? Is that like a fairy?’

‘Not as such.’ Nightingale smiled. ‘You may find slight consolation in the fact that fairies do not actually exist.’

‘Slight,’ conceded Seawoll. ‘"Fae” then?’

‘Something of a catch-all term,’ said Nightingale. ‘Used to describe, essentially, anyone not entirely human, but no more specific than that. I suppose the closest analogy would be how the Greeks used “barbarian”.’

‘I see. An enlightened view, then?’

‘I never claimed so,’ said Nightingale with a hint of asperity. ‘That’s simply how the word was used and how it is still applied.’

‘The point is, guv,’ said Sahra hurriedly. ‘Whatever Martel’s heritage is, if he’s fae in any way, he, well, he might try to influence you. You’ve heard of the glamour, well... But,’ she added, as he started to look alarmed, ‘that’s still a pretty big hypothetical.’

Seawoll looked at Peter. ‘You’ve met him. Is he “fae”?’

Peter blew out a breath. ‘I dunno. I really don’t. He might be. He did seem a bit smooth.’

‘You mean suave?’

‘No.’ Peter waved his hand by his face. ‘I mean, like, literally smooth.’

Seawoll let out a sigh. ‘Of course. But,’ he continued after a pause, ‘if he’s… not human, then why did he not try to influence you when he saw you at the market? Make you forget you’d seen him, or something?’ 

Nightingale looked up with an impressed expression. ‘That’s a very good question, Alexander, if I may say so, but unfortunately it’s not conclusive.’

‘How’s that?’

‘You can’t use the glamour at a goblin market,’ supplied Peter. ‘It’s not allowed.’

‘”It’s not allowed”,’ he echoed and steepled his fingers in thought for a minute or so. He took a deep breath. ‘So what we’re saying is that in attempting to pull this off it’s possible I may be brought under the influence of person, or persons, very definitely unknown.’ He hesitated. ‘You’ll appreciate that this is something that doesn’t sit very comfortably with me. Not after Covent Garden.’

Sahra was ashen. ‘I never thought,’ she murmured. Abigail looked confused.

Peter was about to speak, before Nightingale cut in. ‘I appreciate your concerns, Alexander, you may believe me on that. It’s something that had occurred to me also, and is one of the reasons that I was not entirely happy with this whole proposition.' He paused. 'However, I have dwelt on the matter at length - and consulted Dr Walid –' Peter looked surprised ‘- and I am confident in saying that it would not be in any way the same. You have my word on that.’ He stared intently at Seawoll who, after a moment, nodded.

‘He’s right,’ said Peter. ‘And for what it’s worth, I really don’t think Martel would try anything in a crowded public space, even if he could – which we don’t actually know – not without good reason. Which he won’t have. Added to which, me and Sahra will be on the ground with you and Inspector Nightingale close by.’

Nightingale still looked vaguely troubled. ‘But the fact remains… We discussed this, Peter. In an ideal world I’d have preferred to give him at least some rudimentary training in how to resist it.’

Seawoll shook his head. ‘I’m not sure there’s time. Not with everything else. Let’s see where we get to. And like you say, you’ll all be watching and listening in anyway. If I start clucking like a chicken or something you’ll soon know about it.’

Mood suitably lightened, they pressed on.

‘So, where are we?’ recapped Seawoll. ‘Laurent Martel. Possibly French, possibly not human, definitely involved in rose jars somewhere along the line, if not actively manufacturing, then almost certainly supplying. Does that sum it up?’

Peter nodded. ‘Pretty much.’

‘An international man of mystery, then, who unexpectedly rocks up in your manor, saying he wants to buy a magic wand-'

‘Staff,’ said Nightingale and Peter at the same time.

‘Fine – staff - made by,’ he consulted the binder, ‘the Sons of Weyland. A de facto craft guild, loosely affiliated in some non-specific way with the Worshipful Company of Blacksmiths.’

‘That’s right,’ said Nightingale. ‘Not the goldsmiths. That is of vital importance.’

‘Ok,’ said Seawoll and scribbled a note. ‘And this is where I come in.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘So who exactly am I supposed to be?’

Nightingale shared a look with Peter. ‘The Sons of Weyland have existed,’ he caught himself, 'did exist at least as far back as the main livery company. By which I mean they predated the Newtonian synthesis.’

Seawoll looked puzzled.

‘They predate Newton,’ said Abigail. ‘Our sort of magic. And Wayland was, like, a master blacksmith in Norse mythology.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Apparently,’ said Nightingale. ‘The main point being that the Sons of Weyland maintain that the smiths were the first practitioners of magic.’

‘Good for them. Where do I come in?’

‘We’re not expecting you to pass yourself off as a practitioner,’ said Peter.

‘Well that’s something.’

‘Rather,’ said Nightingale, ‘as something of a loose affiliate to the group. A descendant, we thought.’ He looked to Peter for confirmation. ‘Someone who knows the history, but isn't directly involved.’

‘And someone who may have a few family heirlooms, say?’

‘Precisely,’ he agreed. ‘None of the Sons, the active members, survived the war, and there was no one left to continue the tradition.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Harold has no record that any of the families have been practising since then, so there’s little chance of your cover being prejudiced.’

‘Harold?’

‘Postmartin. The Folly archivist. Based at the Bodleian.’

‘The Bodleian. Naturally.’ Seawoll caught Abigail’s eye, who smiled and looked away.

‘The fact is,’ persisted Nightingale, ‘that with enough background knowledge and a decent grounding, you will be able to pass successfully as one of a handful of people alive today with knowledge of the Sons of Weyland and their work, and with no one capable of refuting it.’

‘And,’ said Peter, ‘if Martel really is interested in buying, then you’ll be able to hold his interest long enough to see if you can get anything out of him on rose jars.’

‘Such as?’

‘If he makes them, fences them, anything. If he does sell, who he sells to.’ 

‘And what his connection is to Santa Cruz, if you can work that in,’ added Sahra.

‘Not much then,’ said Seawoll, making notes. ‘So who do I need to be? Any particular alias?’

They looked to Nightingale. ‘None in particular,’ he said. ‘There weren’t any hereditary lines to speak of, it was more of a calling.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll use my mum’s maiden name. It pays not to be too imaginative when there’s a ton of other stuff to keep track of. But there’ll need to be something, even if this bloke has no obvious links to the police here.’

‘Yeah,’ said Sahra. ‘People using their own name when they’re undercover is just _weird_.’

‘They needed to think it was me, alright?’ Peter protested as Sahra smirked and Abigail grinned.

Nightingale rapped an admonition on the table and they looked suitably chastened. ‘I’m sorry Alexander. You were saying?’

‘Nothing important. All the background I need to know on Weyland,’ he tapped the binder, ‘is in here, right?’

‘Yes, guv,’ said Sahra primly.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve got a decent amount of homework then, haven’t I? Is there anything else you need to tell me while I’m here? Before Palmer turns up.’

Nightingale was tapping his pen thoughtfully against his notebook. ‘Actually,’ he mused, ‘it’s probably of more use to show you than to try to explain it. The practicalities I mean.’

Peter exchanged a dismayed look with Abigail.

‘What do you mean exactly?’

Well,’ Nightingale seemed to come to a decision. ‘Before you meet this chap – and only if you have the time, obviously – you could perhaps come over one evening and I could give you a quick demo in the forge-'

‘In the what now?’

‘The, er, forge. Upstairs.’

Seawoll frowned. ‘Hold on… You’ve got your own forge?’

‘Well I wouldn’t call it a fully-functioning smithy by any means. More of a glorified metal-working bench really.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that while nicks up and down the country are being stretched tighter and tighter, you lot have got a fucking _forge_?’ He was incredulous. 

Nightingale stiffened. ‘You may be assured, Alexander, that any and all expenses relating to the – extremely necessary – facilities of the Folly - and indeed the entirety of its operational costs - are met wholly from our own funds and not the public purse. As they always have been.’

‘Ok. Fine,’ said Seawoll, grudgingly. ‘But still,’ he muttered, ‘a fucking forge.’

‘As we appear to have established,’ said Nightingale, a touch tartly. ‘And so, as I was saying, it would be of use, I think, if I were to show you how it works, just a very basic introduction.’

Seawoll blew out a breath. ‘Do you really think it’s necessary?’

Nightingale considered. ‘I do. It will enable you to speak with authority if the practicalities of the Weyland’s craft come up. If Martel questions you on specific techniques, say. Which in the circumstances is not unlikely.’

‘You were saying earlier, Thomas, that I needed instruction in relation to the influence as well. Which is it to be?’

‘I did say that, and I stand by it. But of the two, this takes priority. For now at least. I trust Peter's assessment of your safety in meeting Martel. But if he doesn't believe you are who you say you are, then the entire exercise becomes moot.’

Seawoll looked pensive. ‘Alright. I’ll try to keep a few hours free one evening this week, but that’s all I can promise.’

Nightingale smiled. ‘Then we’ll do what we can.’

A brief silence fell. Abigail shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Seawoll looked at his watch. ‘What time's Palmer due?’

‘Four,’ said Peter. ‘But he’s not renowned for his timekeeping.’

Seawoll harrumphed. ‘Well he better get his arse in gear, because I need to be on my way by five.’ He began looking back through the pages of the binder, while Sahra made frantic gestures with her eyebrows at Peter, who shrugged, and Nightingale stared abstractedly into space in between scribbling in his notebook.

The hush was broken by the re-entry of Molly, just as the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece began to chime the hour. She wheeled a mahogany trolley, Toby trotting with suspicious docility at her skirts. She replaced the spent tea and coffee pots, and proceeded to lay out platters of tiny crustless sandwiches and, less usually, a tray of espresso cups, which on inspection were filled with a steaming colourless liquid. 

Having cleared and rearranged to her satisfaction, she paused to give a reassuring nod to Sahra and then swept out of the room.

They crowded curiously around the tea table. Nightingale picked up a small cup and gave the contents an experimental sniff.

He wrinkled his brow. ‘Consommé I should think. Tomato?’ He drank. ‘Yes, tomato. It’s very good in fact.’

He took another cup and some sandwiches back to the main desk, and the others followed suit. Seawoll began to ask Abigail about her plans for university, while Peter pulled out his phone and started scrolling through photos for Sahra.

‘What’s it like?’ she asked.

He thought. ‘Like living in a wind tunnel.’

Toby stationed himself by Abigail who absently fed him a sandwich for each one she ate until, once her plate was empty, in a spectacular act of disloyalty he moved over to Peter’s chair, curled up by his feet and went to sleep.

Seawoll was already looking at his watch again when Molly reappeared to usher Zach into the room, only fifteen minutes late, which was actually something of a personal best as he was quick to point out.

He hesitated on the threshold, clearly weighing up which of Nightingale or Seawoll presented the greater threat to his personal safety. He evidently decided on the former and, after stocking up at the tea table, took a seat as far away from him as possible.

Having filled, he then refilled two large plates and working his way through them spoke only when addressed directly by Peter. 

Yes, he’d put the word out that he had a Weyland contact. No, Martel wasn’t suspicious. No, he hadn’t given any details yet, just that he knew someone who was supposed to be connected in some way. Yes, he said he’d be in touch to sort out a date and time. 

He began to look slightly aggrieved. As much as he could with a mouth full of Molly’s custard tart. 

‘Look, I’m doing you lot a favour right? I shouldn’t even be coming here. This won’t do my rep any good if it gets out, yeah?’

‘Your “rep”?’ said Sahra in disbelief.

Zach gave her a look.

‘Ok,’ said Peter. ‘We appreciate it, and we won’t keep you any longer than we need to. Get word to Martel that you’ve made contact and that Mr...’ He looked to Seawoll for corroboration.

‘Furlong.’

‘Right, that Mr Furlong is in town this week and available if he wants to meet. Let him do the running. Don’t look too keen.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Zach. ‘I know.’

‘And how will you say you know me, if Martel asks?’ Seawoll addressed Zach for the first time.

He shrugged. ‘I’ll say you knew my dad. I dunno, you used to work together or whatever. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.’

Seawoll eyed him doubtfully. ‘Make it credible, won’t you, there’s a good lad.’ 

‘You’ll need to make it clear that he’s not linked to the Folly. At all,' added Sahra.

Zach rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah. _I know that_. I’ll just say that you’re not on good terms with the Isaacs.’ He gave a gesture of indifference. ‘I don’t need to know why.' He cast a furtive look at Nightingale. 'Not exactly difficult to believe,' he muttered in a low voice. 

Seawoll regarded him quizzically. ‘If you think that’ll be enough.’

‘Yeah. I said, didn’t I?’ Zach began to shift uneasily in his seat, unhappy at being the centre of attention.

Nightingale addressed him. ‘Thank you, Mr Palmer. I think we may release you now. Peter will be in touch.’ The door of the library opened, and Molly materialised carrying a bulging plastic carrier bag which she held out to Zach. His eyes gleamed, and he got out of his chair.

‘We appreciate,’ Nightingale continued, ‘the service you have rendered us in this instance, and assure you it will not be overlooked.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Conversely, of course, if it transpires that you have sought to serve your own ends – or indeed those of others – in this enterprise, you will, as I am sure I need not remind you, feel the consequences. And soon.’ Zach glared at Nightingale as much as he dared, before edging out of the room, grabbing the bag from Molly's hand as he went.

‘Bloody hell, Thomas.’ Seawoll broke the silence following Zach’s departure. ‘That was a bit fucking full-on. I know he’s a devious little bugger, but was that really necessary?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘He abetted Lesley and concealed her whereabouts for many months prior to, well... Anyway.’ He adjusted his cufflinks. ‘No, I harbour no very great feelings of goodwill towards him, since you ask.’

Fully half a minute passed before Peter cleared his throat. ‘We’re still gonna need a reason though.’

Seawoll refocused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Zach can fudge it, but you can’t. If you’re as closely linked to Weyland as we want to make out - enough to take an interest when someone wants to meet you to talk about it - why are you not in touch with the Folly? Proud home of sanctioned British wizardry.’

Seawoll frowned. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We need something.' He pursed his lips in thought. 'I represent this Weyland lot - Thomas _trained_ with them - there’d have to be some link still. Why am I not telling him that I’m meeting this bloke?’

‘You don’t get on,’ said Sahra.

‘Yeah,’ said Peter. ‘You had a falling out.’

‘Ok,’ said Seawoll. ‘Why? What would be so terrible that I’d break off all contact?’

‘ _Oh_ ,’ said Sahra.

‘What?’

‘Well… maybe…' She averted her eyes. 'Maybe because the two of you used to be in a relationship with each other,’ she said in a rush. ‘And it ended badly I mean.’

‘Yes!’ said Peter.

‘No!’ said Nightingale.

Seawoll was looking thoughtful. ‘Hmmm. That could be credible.’

‘ _What_? That we had been… involved?’ said Nightingale in consternation.

‘No. Obviously. But Martel doesn’t know either of us, so wouldn’t realise how utterly fucking bizarre that would be. And as cover, it _would_ be a convincing reason for why we don't speak.’

‘I don’t like it,’ said Nightingale, his mouth a straight line.

‘You don’t have to bloody like it,’ said Seawoll. ‘I’m the one who’ll have to sell it.’ 

He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘And on that bombshell, I think we're done?’

The others assented, including Abigail, who had been agape for the previous couple of minutes.

Seawoll turned to Peter. 'Do you still have all those burners? I'm going to need one.’

'Um, yeah, sure. I can drop one round in the week.'

'Ok. And text me the number so I can memorise it. Abigail,' he added, addressing her 'can you sort me out with an email address for Alexander Furlong? Nothing too fancy.'

She nodded, and scribbled on a post-it. Peter made his excuses and left, texting Bev as he went, Toby following him out of the room. Abigail packed up her laptop and left with Sahra. Nightingale remained sitting at the table, as Molly reappeared and started to clear.

Seawoll checked his messages then gathered his notes and shoved them into the binder. He put his phone back in his pocket.

‘Right then,’ he said.

Nightingale stood also. ‘You’re going to a great deal of effort, Alexander.’

He snorted. ‘Well there wouldn’t be much use in doing half a fucking job would there? You can’t be semi-undercover.’

Nightingale grinned unexpectedly. ‘No, of course not. And thank you. I know this is about as far from your remit as you’re ever likely to get...’ He looked serious again suddenly. ‘I can’t say that I’m entirely happy about certain aspects of it, as you'll have gathered. But I appear to have been overruled. In any event, I don’t want you to think that I’m not grateful, that we are not grateful.’

Seawoll nodded. ‘That’s alright. For the greater good, and all that. And I happen to agree with the young ‘uns: if this is your only crack at Martel, you need to make it count.' He picked up his papers and made to leave. 'But just this once mind.’

Nightingale smiled, and gestured at the binder. ‘That’s still a lot of homework for “just this once”. Miles to go before you sleep, eh?’

Seawoll raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh, sorry. It’s a quote. It’s-‘

‘Frost. Yeah, I know. You misquoted it though.’ He turned and headed for the door. ‘’Bye Thomas.’


	3. The Mark

From: Zach  
To: Peter - Isaacs  
Mon 13 Jun 23:12

_V &A. Courtyard café. Thursday 2pm_

From: DC Peter Grant  
To: Zach Palmer  
Mon 13 Jun 23:29

_Ok. Be at the Pret by South Ken tube at 1.15. NO LATER_

The following evening saw a hastily-convened tutorial on forging take place in the Folly’s metal-working room. Discussions beforehand on the most useful elements to demonstrate, or rather those which could be taught and accomplished in the least amount of time, meant that Nightingale had already lit the forge and begun heating the metal by the time Seawoll arrived.

On entering, Seawoll stood inside the doorway for several minutes, watching intently as Nightingale rotated a bundle of steel rods in the fire of the burner, turning them this way and that as they began to glow red then orange then a molten yellow. He looked up.

‘Alexander. Ready to learn something?’ 

Nightingale made a motion of offering the glowing metal to Seawoll, who – without speaking – shrugged off his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and approached the bench.

For the next two hours, wearing battered and scorched leather aprons, they worked in tandem, lit by the glow of the flames, Nightingale showing a particular technique and Seawoll following suit, taking turns thrusting nascent staves into the furnace before pulling them out and beating them with a hammer. 

Nightingale began by explaining what he was doing, Seawoll asking the odd question, but very soon they devolved into monosyllables - ‘Yes’, ‘No’, ‘There’, ‘Now’, ‘Enough’ - before they stopped speaking altogether, communicating by gesture only.

After a full twenty minutes of neither of them saying anything, aside from nods and the occasional grunt, Peter decided he might as well excuse himself and head back to Bev’s. Neither of them looked up as he left. Molly saw him out, and they descended the stairs together. After closing the front door, she made as if to go back up, but hesitated on reaching the foot of the staircase and turned in the direction of the kitchen instead.   
  


  
Sahra walked up the shallow steps to the main entrance of the Victoria and Albert Museum, the fumes of six lanes of traffic eddying behind her. 

She paused to gaze up at the front of the building. The doors seemed like they’d been fitted into the massive, ornately carved arch of the entrance almost as an afterthought. She followed the signs, stepping through the left-hand doorway as directed, and opened her handbag for the dour middle-aged security guard, who took it and gave a cursory and dismissive look inside.

He gestured curtly and wordlessly that she could take it back.

‘Thank you,’ she trilled with a dazzling smile and swept on. ‘Miserable git,’ she muttered, and then came to an abrupt halt with a gasp as she passed into the main entrance hall. 

‘Fuck me!’ she breathed.

Peter’s voice sounded urgently in her ear. ‘What? What is it?’

She found her voice. ‘This huge, green... thing. Have you seen it?’ 

A cascade of writhing glass tubes, sea green and turquoise, wriggling tendril-like, was suspended from the dome in the roof. She marvelled at it – it had to be nearly ten metres long – craning her head to get a better look, before remembering why she was there. She began moving again.

Peter sounded relieved. ‘Oh that, the chandelier? Yeah.’

She snorted. ‘It doesn’t look like any chandelier I’ve ever seen.’

‘No, well. You’re in then?’

‘Mm-huh.’ She approached the information desk and bought a museum guide, deploying a rough approximation of her mother’s accent. She carried on further into the building, through the unavoidable gift shop. She bent over a display of scarves.

‘Yeah,’ she resumed. ‘I’m heading for…’ she started walking again and opened out the map in her guide.

‘… the sculpture gallery,’ supplied Peter. ‘Room 22. There are benches down one side, in front of the windows into the courtyard. On a day like today, they should be open.’

‘Copy that,’ she said and descended a short flight of steps into a long narrow room. Daylight flooded in through the openings along one wall and onto countless statues in the classical mode, single figures and groups, all in attitudes of heroic endeavour and disproportionate nudity.

She spotted the stone benches Peter mentioned. None were free at that time of day, so she chose a seat on one occupied only by an elderly and frail-looking white man at the other end.

‘Do you mind..?’ she asked.

The old man stirred out of his reverie. ‘What? No, no. Not at all my dear. Please, feel free,’ and he waved her to sit down, which she did with a word of thanks. She opened the guide, and began to leaf through it, as he pointed with his walking stick at the marble group in front of them. 

‘He’s a rum one and no mistake,’ he said. She smiled and assented, with a modest nod of the head.

‘Yes. Yes, indeed he is,’ he added, and then settled back into complacent silence. She checked her watch surreptitiously and buried her nose in the guide again. Peter, evidently bored waiting for Seawoll and Zach to turn up, began to hold forth on Waterhouse, Pugin, the Victorian neo-Gothicists in general and the wasting of opportunities in public architecture. 

‘… but all architecture is public in one way, isn’t it?’

She was saved from answering by the presence of the old man, and after a few more minutes of disquisition, he suddenly cut off mid-flow with ‘Got to go,’ and the line went dead. Which could only mean that Zach had arrived, or Seawoll, or both. 

She looked over her shoulder out of the window. It was half past one on a fine summer afternoon. School holidays had not yet begun, but the building was busy enough with tourists and day-trippers and the café tables set out in the courtyard were at capacity.

She turned at the sound of running feet approaching, to see a small boy advance and hurl himself at the old man. He grabbed a hand and made to pull him up. ‘Come on, Grandad! We’re going for _ice cream!’_

‘Oh my,’ said the old man, beginning to climb slowly and painfully to his feet. She was about to offer assistance when the boy’s father approached and slipped an arm around the old man and helped him to stand.

Before he shuffled off, he turned back to Sahra. ‘Goodbye, my dear.’ She smiled and gave a small wave. The boy regarded her curiously for a moment, before taking his father’s hand as they began to move slowly towards the exit.

Nightingale’s voice sounded smoothly in her ear. ‘Once the old gentleman has gone, spread out if you can. Try to discourage anyone else from sitting with you.’

She rolled her eyes, but moved into the centre of the seat and picked up her bag to place it next to her. She angled herself so that she could see into the courtyard without turning.

‘No sign?’ said Nightingale.

‘No,’ she murmured. 

‘Alright. Well keep eyes on.’ He paused. ‘And Peter has at least been kind enough to edify us while we wait.’

She smothered a smile. 

He continued. ‘I’m in position. We don’t know which way he’ll enter so I’m not going to risk coming any closer unless absolutely necessary. Keep your line open. Out.’ He cut off.

She waited, and, after another sweep of the courtyard, studied the sculpture in front of her – the one which had claimed the interest of the old man. She angled her head to contemplate it. Two male figures, one upside down; she had no idea what they were supposed to be doing. She squinted at the label on the base, but it was too far away for her to be able to read, and she couldn’t get up to take a closer look. She began to flick through the guide to see if it was mentioned, when her earpiece crackled into life again. It was Peter.

‘They’ve just left. Five minutes. Ten tops.’

‘Ok?’ she muttered.

‘Yeah. Zach’s not happy, but that’s to be expected. He’ll make the introduction and then go. And Seawoll’s…er, prepared.’

‘Huh?’

‘You’ll see. Right, I’m gonna go join Nightingale… Sir, are you in the office?’

‘Affirmative,’ said Nightingale. ‘Martel’s not surfaced yet, so tread carefully.’

‘Will do. On my way,’ said Peter and the line went quiet once more. 

She looked out of the window again and this time kept her gaze on the courtyard. Café tables were arranged on artificial turf around an oval pond, with a bar at one end of the quad. There was an entrance from the gallery in which she was sitting and another on the opposite side. She looked this way and that, as if admiring the architecture of the building. With five minutes to go, she took her phone out of her bag, started to scroll through it and then stopped, making a face as if reacting to a message. She mimed dialling a number and held it to her ear.

She spoke expressively into her phone at intervals for a minute or so, until she spotted him. He looked as he had in Abigail’s surveillance photos. Forty-ish, Caucasian, dark hair, dark eyes. In person she could see that he was about average height, lithe and with a dancer’s build. He was dressed in a form-fitting black sweater with the sleeves pushed up, which did nothing to disguise his physique, and well-cut black trousers.

‘I’ve got him,’ she said into the phone. ‘North-east corner. Not sure what he’s going to do.’ She surveyed the rest of the courtyard. ‘There are no empty tables.’ She continued to watch him, nodding intermittently at the imaginary person on the other end. ‘Oh, but, hold on-‘

As she watched, two women - one middle-aged, one younger, both Japanese in appearance, confirmed by the guide book one of them now picked up - rose from the table closest to where Martel was standing. Their teacups were still half-full and the food on their plates uneaten. They caught his eye and offered their table to him with shy, hopeful smiles, which he accepted, with a dazzling smile of his own and effusive gestures of thanks.

‘Sahra? What’s happening?’ said Peter urgently in her ear.

‘He’s just sat down. Two people gave up their table to him. They didn’t _look_ like they were finished…’

‘Glamour?’ barked Nightingale.

‘Definite possibility,’ she said.

‘Damnation.’

As she spoke, Sahra watched the women move inside the museum. She saw confused expressions begin to cloud their faces, the further away they got from Martel, but they didn’t look back. ‘Keep walking,’ she breathed, and they did. 

Her gaze snapped back to the table. A member of waiting staff had materialised at Martel's side and was clearing the used crockery. 

She spoke again. ‘He’s at a table in the furthest corner. Back to the wall…’

‘Sightlines to both exits,’ said Peter.

‘Exactly.’ She saw a different waitress hand Martel a menu, beaming, and then head back towards the kitchen.

A sudden increase in background noise on the line could only mean that Seawoll had switched on the mic he was wearing. The level of echo suggested he was already inside. She looked quickly back the way she had come in, and then returned her gaze to Martel. As he was perusing the menu, she saw him check his phone – he wore no watch, just a heavy silver signet ring on one hand – and glance towards the entrance.

She looked towards the stairs again, scanning the gallery, and after a couple of moments spotted Seawoll – he was, after all, difficult to miss. Zach was slouching along beside him, every inch the surly teenager who didn’t want to be there. 

Seawoll looked… different. He was moving differently. His normal mode of self-propulsion was chest-first; he charged towards people and bore down on them. All the better to shout at them. But now… his shoulders were back and he led with his hips. He moved leisurely. He wasn’t sauntering as such. It was just… different. In place of the DCI outfit of a decent but deliberately nondescript suit, he wore navy pegged trousers and a white t-shirt under a double-breasted cardigan with a shawl collar. There was a grey scarf wound around his neck in a nonchalant Parisian knot.

As he strolled past Sahra, his eyes flicked in her direction briefly, but he gave no other sign of recognition. He and Zach reached the entrance to the courtyard and stood in the doorway. She saw Seawoll lean down so Zach could say something into his ear. Zach indicated where Martel was sitting and then took a step back and promptly faded from view. Taking her gaze from Martel momentarily, Sahra couldn’t see which way he had gone.

Seawoll paused for a split-second. ‘Alright, children,’ his voice rumbled in her ear. ‘Watch and learn.’

He made his way between tables towards Martel and, before he was half-way there, Martel had noticed his presence in the courtyard and was watching his approach with interest.

Seawoll came to a halt in front of him. ‘M. Martel?’

Martel stood and extended a hand. ‘Laurent, please. And you must be Mr Furlong.’

His accent was unmistakably French – northern, smooth, metropolitan – but with a very slight mid-Atlantic twang.

‘Please sit down.’

Seawoll smiled. ‘Thank you.’ Martel looked around exaggeratedly before sitting himself. ‘Our young friend is not joining us?’

‘It seems not.’ Seawoll shrugged. ‘I’m sure he’ll make himself known again if he feels it’s necessary.’ 

‘Oh quite, quite.’ Martel sat. ‘Well, it was kind of you to agree to meet me Mr Furlong.’

‘Call me Xander.’

There was a muffled exclamation in Sahra’s ear, and she almost dropped her phone.

‘Xander? How charming. You conquer all that you survey, I am sure.’

Seawoll smiled deprecatingly. ‘One tries, Laurent, one tries.’

‘I have no doubt of it.’ He smiled winningly. ‘Now, where are my manners?’

He raised a hand nonchalantly, and instantly a bright-eyed young man in a waiter’s outfit appeared at his side. He held a tray and smiled benevolently at them both.

‘What will you have, Xander?’

Seawoll thought and then spoke with precision. ‘A pot of Earl Grey, if you would. The water must be freshly boiled, and please do not allow the pot to stand for more than three minutes before you bring it. Two slices of lemon on the side. Thank you.’

The waiter’s beaming smile never wavered. ‘Of course, sir.’ He looked inquiringly at Martel, who grinned.

‘That sounds… emphatic. I will have the same. Thank you.’ The waiter trotted off obediently, and Martel raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘You can’t take any chances with tea, Laurent.’

‘Indeed? I shall remember that.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘This is a delightful spot, is it not? While I was waiting, I gave myself the pleasure of visiting some of the exhibits you have here. I think it must be quite my favourite of the London museums. A temple to craftsmanship, non?’

Seawoll regarded him attentively. ‘Is that what interests you, Laurent? Craftsmanship?’

‘But of course. How can it not? The skill. The commitment. The hours expended. And so selflessly. All these objects of beauty and devotion - once completed, once perfected, rarely enjoyed by those who made them.’

‘That’s very true.’ Seawoll paused. ‘I suspect they enjoyed the payment though.’

Martel laughed. ‘Touché, Xander. You are a pragmatist I see. That is a not unworthy trait.’ Seawoll bowed his head in acknowledgment. ‘But is there no romance in your soul?’

Seawoll looked surprised. ‘For art, you mean? And skill? Of course. I think the Chihuly in the foyer, for example, quite breath-taking.’

Martel looked puzzled momentarily, but then his brow cleared. ‘Ah, you refer to the sculpture of glass? Oh yes, I agree entirely. It is spectacular, a triumph of accomplishment! Such beauty, such delicacy wrought from intense heat and brute force…' He paused. 'Ah now.’ He looked meditatively at Seawoll. ‘But yes, I see, Xander, why that piece especially might appeal to you. This will be second nature to you perhaps?’

Seawoll spread his hands in affirmation as the waiter reappeared. He looked only marginally less bright-eyed than earlier, and seemed slightly out of breath. 

He put down cups and a delicate china teapot in front of each of them, a saucer of lemon slices with tiny silver tongs. He looked at his watch. 

‘It was brewed just two minutes ago, sir.’ He addressed Seawoll. ‘I hope that’s alright.’

Seawoll smiled warmly at him. ‘Yes, it is. Thank you very much.’ He paused. ‘We won't be needing anything else.’ He spoke firmly and the waiter nodded, turned and walked away without looking again at Martel.

Martel was watching the exchange with an amused smile. ‘You take an interest in the young ones, I perceive?’ he said after a moment.

Seawoll returned the smile, but there was a hint of steel in his voice. ‘I do. When they’re not able to look after themselves.’

‘ _Shit,’_ hissed Peter. ‘What is he playing at?’

‘It'll be alright,’ said Sahra loyally. ‘He'll have a good reason.’

Martel nodded. ‘I see that.’ He poured a cup of tea, and dropped in a slice of lemon. ‘You are not perhaps what I anticipated, Xander.’ He held up a hand. ‘This is not an insult I assure you.’

‘Oh good,’ said Seawoll. ‘I would hate to be a disappointment.’

‘I have no complaints so far.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Seawoll poured tea for himself and took a sip. He put the cup back into its saucer. ‘Pleasant though this is, Laurent, I am sure you are a man with as many demands on your time as I. So... shall we?’

Martel beamed. ‘How direct you British are! Absolument. So-‘ He put down his cup. ‘I have told you of my admiration for craftmanship generally. And our mutual friend Zachary tells me that you are familiar with one particular branch of it. Of metalwork, specifically. That is the truth, non?’

‘With the work of the Sons of Weyland, you mean? Yes, that’s right.’

‘So forthright!’ exclaimed Martel. ‘I adore it.’

‘I see little use in being coy, Laurent. What would be the point?’ Seawoll smiled indulgently. ‘That is the only reason I’m here after all.’

‘And why _have_ you come here today?’ Martel was suddenly serious. 

Seawoll made an airy gesture. ‘I happened to be in town anyway. Zach got in touch, said there was someone who wanted to speak about Weyland. I’ve known him since he was a boy – or rather I knew his father. Many years ago. He was able to put some business my way every now and then.’

‘Ah yes, I understand.’ Martel smirked.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you?’

Martel stared at him for a few moments, then shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. But anyway, yes. The Sons of Weyland. We had a similar tradition.’

‘We?’

‘In France. Affiliated to the Académie.’

Seawoll nodded knowledgeably. 

‘But, well, the expertise was lost in the early part of the last century.’ He fell silent.

‘Yes? I’m sorry to hear that.’

He shook it off. ‘De rien.’ He smiled brightly. ‘And no worse than most places, I imagine.’

‘Unfortunately so,’ agreed Seawoll. 

‘But enough of that.’ He rearranged himself in his chair. ‘If I may ask, Xander, what is your association with the Weyland? Zachary said that you were connected in some way, and it seems that you are.’

‘That’s right. Zach called me because he knows about the family connection.’

‘Family?’

‘Yes. Nothing particularly interesting. My maternal grandfather was one of the Sons of Weyland,’ he said. ‘He ran a smithy in Manchester before the war. I never knew him, obviously, and my mother never talked about it. But my uncle told me when I was twelve or so.’ He smiled. ‘It explained a few things.’ He poured himself another cup of tea. 

‘Such as?’

‘Why my uncle had a forge in his garage. Why he taught me to work metal when I was a boy. Turns out it was a family hobby – more than a hobby in some cases of course. He learned it from his father and he passed it on to me. Though not quite all the same methods, you understand.’

‘Ah, you do not…?’

‘No,' said Seawoll emphatically, ‘I do not.’

‘And what then?’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing then. I went into a different line of business. My uncle left me his kit when he died – his kids weren’t interested-'

‘And you do it still?’ Martel interrupted, his eyes bright.

Seawoll smiled. ‘Every so often. Nothing too esoteric, mind. Just a few rods of sprung steel, a few of mild. As a pastime it has much to recommend it. As my uncle used to say: "craft, dedication, hard work, and hitting bits of metal very hard with a hammer".’

Martel eyed him appreciatively. ‘Yes. Yes, I can imagine that you do that _very_ well, Xander.’ 

He shrugged modestly. ‘It has been said,’ he admitted, and took a sip of tea.

He put down his cup. Martel remained silent, staring at him raptly. ‘Well, then. Having established my credentials, what exactly is it that you want from me, Laurent?’

‘Want from you? I am not certain that there is anything I _want_ from you. Well not… or rather.’ He tailed off.

‘Bloody hell,’ murmured Sahra. ‘I think he might be blushing.’

‘Really?’ said Peter. ‘Excellent! That won't hurt our chances.’ 

‘Peter,’ said Sahra quietly. ‘Are you going to try to pimp a DCI?’

‘Who? Me, guv?’

‘Enough,’ broke in Nightingale, with enough annoyance to silence them.

‘But,’ Martel recovered. ‘You have done me the honour of candour and I will reciprocate. For reasons I need not bore you with I would like to obtain one of your staffs-‘

‘The plural is staves,’ corrected Seawoll.

‘Ah, yes? Really, your bloody language!’ he exclaimed good-humouredly. ‘Then I would like to obtain one – or more, if that is possible – of your staves.’

‘I’m not sure I’d call them mine.’

‘No, bien sûr. I mean, of course, one of those crafted by the Sons of Weyland.’

‘There aren’t any,’ said Seawoll flatly. ‘As I’ve no doubt you’re aware, the last members of the Sons of Weyland did not survive… the war. And no one has been active since, not even in an informal way so far as I am aware, and certainly not as an organised group such as they were.’ He shrugged. ‘Not dissimilar to what happened in France, as you say. In most of Europe I would imagine.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘Aside from Scandinavia possibly. Who knows what still goes on up there.’

Martel nodded. ‘Ah yes, who indeed?’

Seawoll continued. ‘The majority of battle staves produced for the war were, inevitably, destroyed or lost overseas. A few came back, one must assume, with their owners, but none have ever surfaced. Not in recent decades anyway.’

‘And those others? Those made before the war?’

‘Who knows? They may find their way onto the market every once in a while – it stands to reason – but they’d be as rare as hens’ teeth. ' He tapped his fingers on the table. 'It’s my understanding that most people who were still around afterwards – the wizards I mean-‘ Martel gave a sharp intake of breath and looked momentarily startled, but Seawoll continued blithely ‘- broke their staff, you know the phrase?’ Martel nodded. ‘It was probably literal in some cases. Either way, I can say hand on heart that none have ever crossed my path.’

‘He’s hanging on his every word,’ whispered Sahra.

‘Jolly good,’ said Nightingale.

‘I see,’ said Martel thoughtfully. ‘That is a pity.’

‘To be completely frank, Laurent, if you’re serious about this, the best place to ask about the Sons of Weyland would be in Russell Square.’

‘The Folly? Ask the Nightingale, you mean?’ Martel made a face. ‘That is not likely. Aside from the fact that he is a policeman also, him and his keen new – what is the word? – sidekick-'

‘ _Sidekick_?’ spluttered Peter.

Seawoll shrugged. ‘He’s still the most likely to know if there are any in circulation. Him or his cronies.‘

‘Hmm. No. I do not think so. My client – clients - are not perhaps comme d’habitude. To involve the police force would not be wise.’

‘Clients. Plural,’ murmured Sahra.

‘Well it’s your decision of course,’ said Seawoll.

‘Yes, but it is not to be thought of. It is a shame. Especially as I understand the Nightingale studied with the Sons of Weyland in his youth. That he actually learned their craft from them.’

Seawoll was thin-lipped. ‘I believe so.’

‘Ah, now, Xander. What is this?’ He eyed him contemplatively. ‘But yes, Zachary mentioned that you are not on good terms with the Folly.’

Seawoll opened his mouth in indignation. Martel held up a placatory hand. ‘No, no. Be calm. He said nothing. He was not indiscreet.’ He paused. ‘Indeed, I have the feeling that he was not particularly interested,’

‘Good,’ said Seawoll emphatically. 

‘But it is strange, I think…’

Seawoll made a point of picking up a teaspoon and stirring his tea. ‘What do you find strange, Laurent?’ His tone was ominous, but Martel was undeterred.

‘That you have the connection. The last connection, perhaps, with this group, and yet you and the Folly are not, um…’

Seawoll sighed. ‘Laurent, if this is some elaborate way of finding out whether I will mention your enquiries to Nightingale, you may rest assured on that point. I do not intend to communicate to any member of the Folly the fact of this meeting, or what passes between us. Nightingale and I have not been, as you aptly say, on good terms for some years and that is unlikely to change. I can only restate that if you require further information about the battle staves made by the Sons, then you had best inquire there. But I am afraid I cannot furnish you with an introduction.’

‘The Nightingale crossed you in business, I take it?’

Seawoll hesitated. ‘In business? No,’ he said coldly.

‘Ah, oui?’ Martel looked sympathetic. ‘An affaire de cœur, I perceive. I apologise for intruding.’

Seawoll gave a wry smile. ‘You weren’t to know. And it was… some years ago.’ He looked into the middle distance, and spoke as if thinking aloud. ‘I don’t think I would even dignify it by calling it that – an affair of the heart.’ He added ruminatively, ‘I’m not sure that he even has one. I certainly saw little evidence of it.’

‘It is true,’ Martel said carefully, ‘that I have heard him described as very proud and cold. Standoffish even.’

Seawoll looked back to Martel and raised an ironic eyebrow. ‘Indeed? Well not in every situation, perhaps. I cannot lie. But that only compensates so far.’

In the sculpture court, the gallery attendant looked again with concern at the young woman in the head scarf sitting in the embrasure. She’d seen her drop her head into her hands, and now her shoulders were shaking. She’d been on the phone earlier too, maybe there’d been bad news.

She approached Sahra and bent down. She reached out a hand in sympathy, but stopped short of touching her.

‘Miss? Miss? Are you alright?’

Sahra turned her face up to the attendant. There were tears on her cheeks, but she was laughing silently, one hand pressed to her mouth.

‘I’m fine,’ she said when she was able. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry. Someone sent me a funny video. Of a cat. I shouldn’t have opened it in here. Sorry.’

The attendant straightened up, looking puzzled. ‘Ok, well. Maybe don’t next time.’

‘I won’t. Sorry.’ She took a deep breath and composed herself. She looked back out into the courtyard.

Martel hadn’t given up. ‘No, but, from what I have heard, I imagine it cannot be easy to be in a relationship with the Nightingale…’

Seawoll set his jaw. ‘Ancient history, Laurent. What could be duller?’ He took a breath. ‘I ought not to have mentioned it, and I apologise for boring you with it. In any event, it is of no importance. One must look to the future.’

‘Ah, you speak the truth, Xander. I too am looking forward rather than backwards. It is the only way. The young people of today are so.. vibrant, non? So full of energy and ideals.’ Seawoll nodded in agreement. ‘But still,’ he dropped one hand nonchalantly next to where Seawoll’s was lying on the table, ‘there are, inevitably, certain areas where experience is… invaluable,’ he said, and drew his thumb lightly across the back of Seawoll’s exposed wrist. 

Seawoll inclined his head slightly, maintaining eye contact. ‘I’ve certainly always found it so.’

Martel smiled widely. ‘How fortunate that we are in agreement then.’

Seawoll smiled back. ‘As interesting as this is becoming, should we perhaps turn back for a moment to the purpose of this meeting?’

Martel sighed. ‘If we must.’ He took a breath. ‘I perceived you to say, Xander, that, in terms of the staffs – staves, pardon - you have nothing to offer me?’

‘There’s nothing on the open market, so far as I’m aware.’

He nodded slowly. ‘But,’ he hesitated, weighing his words. ‘Is there, perhaps – for the right price, of course, a payment for which one would assuredly be grateful – perhaps some personal inheritance that you might know of? Something that has been passed down..?’

‘There’s nothing on the open market, so far as I’m aware,’ repeated Seawoll. He took a sip of tea.

‘Eh bien?’ said Martel, delightedly. ‘Then we begin to understand one another, eh Xander? You know, I had a good feeling about you when I saw you arrive earlier.’

‘I’ll bet he did,’ said Peter.

‘ _Peter_ ,’ said Nightingale warningly.

‘I think we may begin to,' said Seawoll amiably. 'But let me be absolutely clear. You are interested in something that I may be able to help you with. As luck would have it, I happen to be interested in something that _you_ may be able to help _me_ with. So, yes, there certainly appear to be grounds for mutual understanding.’ 

‘Xander, you intrigue me. And if it is possible, let it be so by all means.’ He sat back in his chair with a pleased smile. He spread his hands wide. ‘Tell me, Xander, what is it that interests you? With what can I help?’ 

‘Rose jars,’ said Seawoll without preamble.

‘Fuck,’ said Peter.

‘No. No, wait for it,’ said Sahra, calmly. ‘He knows what he's doing.’

Martel looked discomfited for the first time that afternoon.

‘Xander, I-‘ he looked quickly over his shoulder. ‘I’m not-‘ he stuttered. ‘What do you mean?’

Seawoll smiled reassuringly. ‘Simply that. If I’m honest, I’m surprised our paths haven’t crossed before now…’

Martel looked confused. ‘Xander, pardon, but I am bound to say that you have not yet told me what your business is.’

Seawoll’s smile became slightly vulpine. ‘That’s right, Laurent. I haven’t. But come now, you must credit me with a little knowledge. I thought we were on our way to an understanding. Our paths may not have crossed, but I have heard your name here and there. As a... person of interest.’ His smile widened. ‘Why else would I be here?’

Martel relaxed. ‘Xander, you have been tricking me.’ He wagged a finger.

Seawoll raised an eyebrow. ‘Not I. Merely playing the game.’ He leaned forward and looked intently at Martel. ‘And in a game of chance, what you risk determines what you value,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’

Martel’s mouth twisted into a smile. ‘On this occasion, yes, Xander, I would. So, then, we shall be open,’ he said as Seawoll sat back again. 'What do you want to know about them? _Why_ do you want to know about them?’

‘Let’s just say – for now – that I have my own friends on the west coast of America,’ Martel gave an involuntary twitch and he dropped the tongs he had begun toying with, ‘who, alongside being stupidly rich, are actually also fairly stupid…’

‘I see,’ said Martel slowly. ‘I _see_.’

Seawoll nodded in response. ‘I thought you might. Forgive me if I'm being too blunt, but, whenever I ask about these.. items, whomever I ask, invariably one name always comes up. Whether or not it is the truth, Laurent, you appear to hold the monopoly. Now, obviously, I cannot go into detail here, but - in broad terms - if I was able to put forward.. ‘ He paused, thinking. ‘Or rather, shall we say, if I were in a position to put together a package, then that would significantly augment the attraction of it. Do you follow?’

‘Xander, I am increasingly beguiled by your methods, and-‘ he looked at his phone, apart from the time, the screen was black, ‘I am desolated that I have another appointment and must leave soon. But I would very much like to continue this conversation. I don’t suppose…?’

Seawoll inclined his head. ‘What’s that?’

He came to a decision. ’I don’t suppose you are free on Sunday evening? I have tickets to a gala performance at the London Coliseum.’

‘Opera?’

‘Yes. Do you care for it?’

‘That depends entirely on the quality of the production.’ He regarded Martel narrowly. ‘Is it Wagner?’

Martel sniffed. ‘It is not! My idea of a good evening is not a well-filled shift.’ He paused. ‘It _is_ German, however. Mozart. _Die Zauberflöte_. As light and bright and sparkling as one could wish. The tickets were a gift and I was not sure whether I would attend, but now,’ his smile held a genuine warmth, ‘I believe I would like you to join me very much.’

Seawoll had pulled out Peter’s burner phone and was checking the calendar. ‘Sunday... I appear to be free.’ He looked up again at Martel. ‘Yes, why not? And if the opera is a bore, well…’ he let the unfinished thought hang in the air

Martel grinned. ‘Indeed.’ He picked up his phone and made ready to leave. ‘How fortuitous this has turned out to be. When you see our young friend again, you must thank him for me.’

Seawoll grimaced. ‘Any understanding we may come to – of a commercial nature I mean – I'm sure will bring young Zachary out of the woodwork and clamouring for an introduction fee.’

Martel spread his hands. ‘I could not blame him for that.’ He stood up. ‘And any understanding not of a commercial nature…?’

Seawoll raised his chin. ‘I wouldn’t propose involving him in that at all.’

Martel grinned again ‘Xander, I cannot tell you how glad I am that we met today. I look forward to Sunday evening very much. But now, malheureusement, I must go. Please accept my profound apologies and know that only the most pressing appointment would, well..’ he looked momentarily embarrassed. 

Seawoll smiled. ‘Not to worry, I understand completely. I'll see you on Sunday then.’

Martel looked relieved. ‘Oui. Alors à dimanche, Xander,' he said and made for the exit, throwing one final look back.

Seawoll raised a hand in farewell, and continued to observe him as he disappeared through the café and into the recesses of the museum. He looked at his watch. ‘He’s gone,’ he murmured. ‘I’m assuming you got all that. Sahra – stay low. I’ll give him time to clear. I’ll be looking for the cab in ten.’

Seawoll strode purposefully out of the exit into the new courtyard and onto Exhibition Road. He stepped to the edge of the kerb and raised his hand. A black cab, yellow light on, drew up beside him. It was driven by a stocky white man in middle age, with a salt and pepper crew cut and a broken nose. 

He bent to the open window. ‘Are you free?’

The man smiled. ‘Step in.’

Seawoll clambered into the back seat. The driver pulled out and surveyed him through the rear view mirror. ‘Russell Square?’

Seawoll thought. ‘If that’s the plan. Frank, isn’t it?’

Caffrey nodded. ‘That’s right. Nice to meet you, Inspector.’

‘And you,’ said Seawoll. ‘Thanks for doing this.’ He looked at the lanes of traffic flowing alongside. ‘I don’t suppose I need to ask if you were followed?’

Caffrey met his eyes in the mirror.

‘No. You don’t need to ask.’

‘Fair enough.’ He blew out a long breath and reached into his clothes, pulling off the wire. ‘Where are the others?’

Caffrey changed lanes. ‘Nightingale and Grant are in the Jag, and I’m about to…’ He made a sharp left and pulled into a service alleyway. About half way along, Sahra stepped nimbly out of a doorway as the cab ambled slowly alongside and hopped in.

‘Alright, our Sahra,’ said Seawoll. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

‘I know, right!’

She hunkered down in the seat next to Seawoll as Caffrey took a labyrinthine and highly illegal route through the narrow back streets of Knightsbridge, before pulling out onto the south side of Hyde Park.

‘Is it ok now Frank?’ she asked.

‘All good.’

She sat up, and was about to say something to Seawoll but, glancing over, saw that he was staring out of the window, brow furrowed and deep in thought, so she left him to it. She took out her phone to text Peter and fifteen minutes later they were pulling into the courtyard at the top of Bedford Place.

‘He’s not your man,’ said Seawoll, as he entered the ground floor reading room, where Peter and Nightingale were already present.

A chorus of ‘What?’ and ‘I beg your pardon?’ greeted him in response.

‘Um, _why_ , guv?’ asked Sahra.

He took a deep breath and leaned against the back of a chair. ‘Look, I don’t have your magical fucking powers or whatever, but I have been a detective for twenty five years. And in that time, I’ve had the misfortune of having to deal with all manner of despicable scrotes from all ends of the fucking spectrum. So call it gut instinct, or copper’s fucking intuition or whatever you want, but… I don’t think he’s the one. Not the one you’re after.’

‘But..’ Peter stammered. ‘It’s _his_ name. All the time.’

‘Oh he’s connected. I’ve no doubt of that. And he’ll probably lead you somewhere if you can follow. But he’s the monkey, not the organ grinder.’

Peter had sat down, with a stunned look on his face. Nightingale, standing next to him was watching Seawoll carefully.

‘Then why did you agree to meet him a second time?’ he said after a pause.

‘Well, I could be wrong , of course,’ he said, in a tone that suggested how unlikely an outcome that would be. ‘And another meet might tell us. Or at least give us a lead to something else.’

The “us” hung in the air, but Seawoll didn’t appear to notice.

‘You didn’t..?’ Sahra began.

‘What? I didn’t what?’

‘You didn’t feel… compelled to meet him again?’ she ventured slowly.

Before he could answer, Nightingale interposed, ‘Think very carefully, Alexander. Did he attempt to influence you? Could you feel anything?’

Seawoll gave the matter some thought. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I’m pretty sure not. There was _something_ about him. I couldn’t explain what exactly. But, no, the decision was entirely mine.’

‘Good,’ said Nightingale sounding relieved. ‘That’s good. But it may be different in a different setting. Sahra thinks she saw him use it before you arrived.’

Seawoll threw her a questioning look. ‘Did you? How certain are you?’

She looked directly at him. ‘Pretty certain. I think he got some people to give up a table to him. You saw how busy it was.’

Seawoll hmmed and Nightingale spoke again, ‘So I’m sorry Alexander, but I really must insist that we have some time for a proper session to run through resistance and so forth.’

He nodded. ‘Yeah, I agree. There’s not much time though. When were you thinking?’

‘I’m at your disposal. Saturday? It may be useful to do it as close as possible to the event.’

‘Ok. I’ve got some fucking management wank course down in Greenwich during the day, so it’ll have to be after that.’

‘Very well. I’ll look out any useful literature in the meantime.’

Peter suddenly rejoined the conversation. ‘I’m not sure I can make Saturday. We’re taking the twins out to see Lea - the whole gang’s going, and Bev will seriously kill me if I try to wriggle out of it. I’ve no idea when we’ll get back.’

‘I shouldn’t think that will present a problem,’ said Nightingale. ‘It doesn’t need both of us.’ He smiled. ‘I’d rather not drag you away from your family any more than absolutely necessary.’

‘Ok, thanks,’ said Peter. ‘I’ll make sure I’m around the day after for Martel obviously.’ He turned to Seawoll. ‘What is the plan for Sunday, sir?’

Seawoll considered. ‘I don’t know that I’ve got a plan as such. Push harder on the US connection if I can. There was a definite wobble there. But other than that… just be my devastating self, and see what else I can get.‘

‘But hold on-’ Peter was rifling through his notebook. ‘What was it that you offered him?’ He found the page he wanted. ‘Yeah - you talked about “putting together a package”. What was that about?’

Seawoll smiled. ‘Fucked if I know.’ He chuckled at their puzzled looks. ‘Doesn’t matter. The vaguer you are, the easier it is for them to fill in the gaps. Usually with whatever their black and craven little hearts desire the most. Take note, children. It’s a good trick and it rarely fails. People want to believe _so_ much.’

‘Clever,’ said Sahra.

‘I know.’ He winked at her. ‘Anyone would think I’d done this before.’ He resumed. ‘But aside from that, I’m open to suggestions on approach. You heard everything,’ He looked around for confirmation. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think,’ said Sahra, ‘it wouldn’t hurt for you to continue letting him be quite, um, friendly, guv.’

‘Friendly!’ snorted Seawoll. ‘Is that what you call it? I haven’t been worked over that thoroughly since.. well, never mind.’

‘You didn’t do too badly yourself, sir.’

He looked amused. ‘Thank you Sahra. I’ll take that as a tribute to my frankly staggering performance, which no one’s yet seen fit to mention.’ He looked around the room.

‘There were certain details of your backstory that I could possibly have lived without,’ said Nightingale drily. 

Seawoll grinned. ‘That’s as may be. But it worked, didn’t it? It’s all a matter of knowing what will fly.’ He became serious again. ‘And let’s just say I know the type.’

Nightingale looked interested. ‘Is that why you.. overruled him with the waiter?’

He grimaced. ‘Yeah. He was throwing his weight around, so I thought it was worth squaring up a bit. See what happened. I reckoned if he’s the type who gets off on ordering people around, then it’d probably impress him to see someone else do it.’ He paused. ‘And also ‘cause it was annoying me.’

He looked pensive. ‘I’m not even sure he’s French you know.’

‘Not French?’ spluttered Peter. ‘He couldn’t be more French if he tried.’

‘That’s exactly it. Just a bit too much maybe?’ He pondered. ‘And you do have these archetype.. types knocking about, don’t you?’ Peter nodded slowly. ‘You know, Peter, something you said last week stuck in my head. About you making Martel into a bogeyman. That might not be so far off the mark – a distraction. A front. All smoke and mirrors, no substance.’ 

‘Anyway.’ He shrugged and straightened up off the chair-back. ‘I’ll leave that with you.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to get back to Belgravia but there is one other thing. His name – Martel. Did you look into that?’

Peter looked puzzled. ‘Yeah, I thought we told you. Databases, birth records, electoral rolls. We didn’t turn up anything.’

‘No, I mean: did you look up the name?’

Peter cast a quick look at Sahra, and then back to Seawoll. ‘Sorry, guv, I’m not sure I follow.’

Seawoll sighed, pulled out his phone and typed a few words into it, as Nightingale looked inquiringly at Peter, who shrugged.

After a couple of seconds he grunted and held out the screen for them all to see. He’d typed in the search terms “French surname Martel meaning” and underneath, the first return read:

“… _metronymic o_ _ccupational_ _name for a blacksmith, from Old French martel meaning hammer_ …”

‘ _Oh_ ,’ said Sahra and Peter together.

‘Yeah,’ said Seawoll. ‘How’s your French?’ he addressed Nightingale.

‘It’s not my strongest,’ he conceded.

‘Hmm. It could be a coincidence of course,’ said Seawoll, putting away his phone. ‘Do you get that many coincidences in specialist crimes?’

‘Not too many, no,’ admitted Peter.

‘Well, I don’t suppose it matters much either way, whatever his real name is. I’ll meet him one more time. He’ll be a bit more confident maybe. Less suspicious, more loose-lipped. We can but hope.’

Peter looked at him. ‘You really don’t think he’s the one?’

‘I don’t lad,’ he said gently. ‘But I’ll have one more go. See if I can get something useful. Alright?’ He paused. ‘And now I really have to go. Sahra, you’re with me.’ He addressed Nightingale and Peter. ‘Let me know the arrangements for Sunday.’

‘It won’t be a problem for you?’ Nightingale said abruptly. ‘To attend the opera I mean.’

Seawoll shook his head. ‘I don’t have a problem with the opera per se. No more than the next person anyway. If it had been Covent Garden, or Benjamin fucking Britten, then I would have said no. But,’ he shrugged, ‘as it is, not a problem. Thanks for checking though. And now,’ he made to leave, ‘I’m going to Belgravia.’

Nightingale was looking thoughtful. ‘It’s a charity gala, I think he said? That means black tie. You’ll need a dinner jacket. Do you have one?’ he asked Seawoll.

He halted on his way to the door and sighed. ‘Yeah. From Brooks I think.’

‘No,' said Nightingale emphatically. 'It will have to be better than that.’ Seawoll began to protest but Nightingale ignored him. He cast a practised eye over Seawoll’s frame. ‘My tailor will be able to help. No time for bespoke of course, but something could be done… yes.’ He decided. ‘Go to Dege and Skinner. On Savile Row, you must know it. Give them my name-‘ Seawoll rolled his eyes, ‘and they’ll fit you in. They’ll have something they can alter for you I’m sure.’

‘Fine, fine,’ said Seawoll, heading for the exit. ‘I’ll call in later. But right now I’m going to go and spend some time doing the job I get paid for. Come along, Sahra.’

‘Yes, very good,’ said Nightingale absently. ‘Ask for Michael and be sure to tell him I sent you.’

‘Oh I will,’ said Seawoll. ‘Because it’ll be coming out of your fucking budget.’

  
  



	4. The Tell

At six thirty, Miriam hovered at the door of Seawoll’s office.

‘Pint?’

Yeah,’ he said absently. He was frowning at his computer screen and didn’t look up. ‘Yeah, just give me twenty minutes to get these reports sorted. Burlington?’

‘Why not?’

At seven, they were settled at a corner table, a Red Sea of junior officers having parted before them.

‘So.’

‘So?’

‘How’s Pam?’

‘Fine. How’s being undercover for the SAU?’

‘Oh, you heard about that did you?’

‘I did. And I’m assuming that will be why you rocked up yesterday afternoon dressed like a - what was it again? oh yeah - an ageing hipster.' She took a drink. 'I had reports.’

Seawoll rolled his eyes. ‘Did you now?’

‘Well what did you expect, turning up at work looking like that? Bets were on either a midlife crisis or a new bloke.' She grinned. 'I went for both.’

He grimaced and took a pull of his pint. ‘Your life’s not your own.’

‘No,’ Miriam conceded. ‘It’s not. But do I hear right? You’re meeting up with their target again?’

‘That’s right. 

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘I dunno. I started it, so I need to go where it leads. You know how it is.’

She nodded.

‘I haven’t been undercover for years. It doesn’t do any harm to shake off the complacency once in a while, you know our Miriam. Also,’ he added, ‘it’s not my collar, so not my clear-up rate. If it all goes tits up, there won’t be any fall-out for me.’

‘So what’s the op then?’

‘Did Sahra not tell you?’

‘Nooo. She was _very_ tight-lipped.’

He looked impressed. ‘Good for her. Er, well, long story short, it’s someone they say they’ve had an eye on for a couple of years. And possible links to that shitshow in the Medways in February.’ He paused. ‘So you’ll appreciate that I couldn’t exactly refuse.’

She looked pensive. ‘Is it safe?’

He shrugged. ‘Safe enough. There’s no obvious threat, and that lot are always hovering in the shadows nearby anyway.’

‘Hmm. So who’s the mark?’

‘Some French bloke. He has something they want, possibly; they have something he wants, possibly. I get in the middle and try and find out what’s going on.’ He took a drink. ‘That’s the edited version.’

‘So I gathered.’

‘I did the meet-up yesterday. As you’ve clearly deduced. There was a bit of traction, could have been more. He invited me to the opera on Sunday, and I-‘

‘The _opera_?’ hooted Miriam.

‘Yes, the opera,’ he said patiently. ‘ _What_?’ as she continued to laugh. ‘I can be fucking refined.’

‘Nothing, nothing,’ she sobered. ‘And you’re really ok doing this?’

‘Yeah. Really. There’s no exposure to speak of, and it’s no hardship. I’ve spent time in worse company undercover.’ He leaned forward. ‘He’s very charming.’

‘Very charming is he? This man you've no issue spending time with.’

‘I just said that. Are you listening to me at all?’

‘I am!' She thought for a moment. 'Well-dressed too, I imagine.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well-spoken?’

‘Well, he’s French, but yeah. Articulate certainly.’

‘Well-informed? Erudite?’

‘Now you mention it.’

‘Handsome?’

‘Not to everyone’s taste possibly, but,’ he shrugged, ‘I can’t deny it.’

‘Oh, slightly older is he?’

‘Well fuck knows how old he actually is, but he looks about forty.’

‘I see,’ she nodded sagely. ‘So also a tiny bit magic I’m guessing?’

‘Well, yeah, it-‘ He broke off and eyed her narrowly. ‘What are you trying to fucking say, Miriam?’

She raised her eyebrows and looked at him over her pint. 

‘Oh very fucking funny, I’m sure.’

She laughed delightedly. ‘If the shoe fits…’

Molly answered the door at twenty minutes to seven.

‘Hello Molly,’ said Seawoll, stepping inside. ‘Is your… is Nightingale around?’

Nightingale approached across the atrium. ‘Alexander. Thank you for coming.’

‘That’s alright. Sorry, I’m later than I thought I would be. I got stuck driving back across town.’

‘Not to worry. Did your dinner suit arrive?’

‘What? Oh yeah. I think so. Well my neighbour took in a garment bag for me, I assume that was it. I only had time for a quick turnaround at home, so I just chucked it on the stairs before I came out. I’ll check later.’

‘You… _chucked_ it on the stairs?’

Seawoll waited a beat and then smiled. ‘I’m kidding. I hung it up. I didn’t have time to look, but I’m sure it will be impeccable.’

‘Yes, very funny.’

Seawoll chuckled. ‘You do take it very seriously, don’t you? All this.’ He gestured, taking in Nightingale and the single-breasted grey suit, the pale blue shirt and knitted silk tie.

‘I suppose.’ He shrugged. ‘Clothes maketh the man, and so forth.’

‘Yeah, but all manner of wankers can have nice suits.’ Seawoll held up a hand placatingly. ‘I wasn’t referring to you.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ said Nightingale, before turning. ‘Do you want to come up? I thought we might as well use the library again.’

The main desk in the library was, this time, half-covered with stacks of books, some lying open. Seawoll eyed them dubiously. ‘I’m not going to have time to read all them.’

‘Oh no. That’s everything I managed to dig out, with Abigail’s help. For reference only, should we need them. Tea?’

‘Thanks.’ Seawoll took a seat. 

Nightingale put a cup on the table in front of him, and sat down opposite. He pulled one of the open books towards him.

‘So. The compulsion, or the influence. We tend to refer to the glamour, a term originally used by the Scots.’

‘Bloody hell. You don’t hang about do you?’

Nightingale smiled apologetically. ‘We don’t have a great deal of time. I thought it best if I run through everything, from the very basics, and you can stop me if I’m telling you things you already know, yes?’

Seawoll took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. ‘I doubt I’ll be stopping you, but go on.’

‘Right, well, the glamour, as you know, is the effect that certain creatures – I’m sorry, persons – can exercise on those around them. Often it may be little more than engendering a favourable impression of the caster, and most of the time is, I believe, unconsciously done. I have spoken to Beverley about it, and she has confirmed it to be so.’ He paused. ‘Albeit of course, it can also be consciously applied and manipulated. We’ll come on to that.’

‘Should I be taking notes?’

‘If you did, would you review them before tomorrow night?’

‘Doubtful.’

Nightingale grinned. ‘Probably not much point then. I’ll keep the theory to a minimum in any event.’ He continued. ‘According to Bartholomew, many supernatural… persons deploy the glamour as a form of self-defence-‘

‘And who the fuck is Bartholomew when he’s at home?’

Nightingale hesitated and looked down at the open book under his hand. ‘You’re right. Probably not worth getting into,’ he said. ‘In brief, it is something that arises naturally – or supernaturally I suppose – and to differing extents - with the fae. But there is a spell which can replicate it sufficiently.’

‘And that’s what you’ll be using tonight?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘That’s what I’ll be using tonight. But only as a means of demonstration, I assure you. Anything that seeks to interfere with the will of another human is strictly off-limits. It is only, now, in circumstances such as these that I would employ it and, obviously, only with consent.’

Seawoll blew out a breath. ‘Ok.’

‘Is that going to be alright?’ Nightingale asked with a hint of concern in his voice. ‘We can stick with just the theory if you’d rather. But I do genuinely believe it will be of use for you to test it a little.’ He considered. ‘Or of course, we can call off the whole thing with Martel tomorrow. That’s still an option.’

‘No, no. In for a penny,’ said Seawoll. ‘Forewarned is forearmed and all that.’

‘Very well. So, to continue. Several things-’ Nightingale paused as Seawoll pulled his phone out of his pocket. ‘I’m sorry, do you need to…?’

‘No, no. Just switching it off.’ He did so and stowed it away again. ‘Carry on.’

‘Thank you. Several things,’ he resumed, ‘contribute to the power that can be exerted by a glamour. The primary one is the proximity of the caster to the subject. The closer one is, physically, the more potent the effect.’

‘Stands to reason.’

‘Quite. And similarly self-evident, one might say, is the mental state of each party. Generally speaking, those more susceptible to the glamour are those without a strong sense of self, those who perhaps feel they are missing some meaning in their lives.’

Seawoll nodded. ‘Makes sense. And the… caster?’

‘As one would expect, the level of effect, of influence, varies with the power, or willpower I suppose, of the originator. Or, in the case of this evening, me.’

‘And how powerful are you, Thomas?’

Nightingale looked at him. ‘I’m the most powerful man in Europe, Alexander,’ he said seriously. ‘Didn’t you know?’ There was no pride in it, no swagger, merely a statement of fact. 

Seawoll contemplated him. ‘And yet so modest,’ he said after a moment.

Nightingale smiled. ‘Naturally.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So. Shall we begin the practical?’

‘Might as well.’ He drained his cup and pushed it away. ‘What do I need to do?’

‘Very little to begin with,’ said Nightingale as he carried his chair around the table and put it down next to Seawoll’s. ‘One other thing I ought to mention is that Peter is of the opinion that greater exposure to the glamour leads to greater resistance. I have no cause to doubt him, but I’m not sure there’s any actual evidence for that.’

‘There’s not really evidence for any of this, is there?’

Nightingale paused. ‘Can we say that it’s a matter of established opinion and leave it at that?’

‘Fair enough.’

He sat down. ‘You said on Thursday that you didn’t feel that Martel had tried to influence you in any way, but, by definition, in order to be successful the glamour needs to be subtle enough for the recipient not to balk at the suggestion. I want you to think back. Can you recall anything, any sense impression, that you might have had about him? That didn’t feel quite right.’

Seawoll thought. ‘I genuinely don’t think there was. You mentioned that some people use it to, what was it, engender a favourable impression?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘There could, conceivably, have been an element of that. In a small way. Like I said, I felt _something_ was off.’

‘What did you think of him?’

‘That he’s slippery as fuck. But I was expecting that.’

‘What else?’

‘Honestly?’ Nightingale nodded. ‘I thought he was charming and good-looking. But I don’t think those are objectively in doubt, are they?’

‘Hmm. Well, as you say, there may have been something. _Seducere_ will feel slightly different. More mechanical almost.’

‘I’m sorry, what?'

‘ _Seducere_. That’s the name of the spell.’ He saw the look on Seawoll’s face. ‘And I didn’t name it.' He waited for further comment, but none was forthcoming. 'Very well then. I’m going to begin with something non-specific. You should get the general idea. Enough to begin to recognise it and practise resisting. Ready?’

‘Hold on.’ Seawoll shifted in his seat and rolled his shoulders. ‘Ok. Ready.’ 

Nightingale made no movement except to bring together the first two fingers and thumb of the hand that was resting on the table. He watched as Seawoll’s brow began to furrow.

He stopped. ‘What are you doing?’

Seawoll looked at him. ‘Er, thinking of something else.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought that if you thought of something else, kept your mind fully occupied I mean, then it prevents anyone.. getting access.’

Nightingale looked bemused. ‘Why would you think that?’

‘I.. may have seen it in a film.’

‘I see. Would it profit me to know which film?’

‘Probably not.’ He paused. ‘So, that won’t help then?’

‘I suspect not. I think for current purposes, you should relax, and just see if you can begin to detect anything when I cast. Recognition is more than half the battle.’

‘Fine. On you go then.’

Seawoll resettled himself and Nightingale cast once more. After almost a minute, Seawoll said slowly, ‘Yeah, yeah, there’s something.’ He considered. ‘Like a little scratch at the back of my brain. Is that it?’

Nightingale cut the spell. ‘And now?’

Seawoll nodded. ‘Gone. Right. I get it. Ok.’

Nightingale smiled. ‘Very well done.’ He became serious. ‘Do you..? Are you alright to continue?’

‘Yeah. Yeah…’ Seawoll was silent for some time, and Nightingale waited for him to speak. ‘I suppose,’ he said at last, ‘if you think about it, it’s not necessarily a bad idea for me to be doing this. Given what happened. Learning how to recognise it, resist it.’ He added thoughtfully. ‘It gives me a bit of control back.’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Excellently put,’ he said. ‘So… do you want a few seconds to compose yourself before we begin again?’

Seawoll gave himself a shake. ‘No, no. Let’s crack on.’

‘Very well. This time, I’m going to be a little more focused, but I’m not going to tell you how. Alright?’

Seawoll nodded, and Nightingale cast again. He watched as, after a few moments, a slow smile spread across Seawoll’s face. 

‘No, Thomas, I do not want to scratch my nose.’

‘Splendid,’ said Nightingale, as he relaxed his hand. ‘How was that?’

Seawoll shrugged. ‘Ok. I could feel the impulse to do it, but almost at the same time, I realised it wasn’t coming from me. And so I didn’t.’

‘Good. That’s exactly what we’re looking for. Once more, perhaps? And then I don’t think we need persist.’

‘Fine.’

Nightingale cast once more, and Seawoll successfully resisted the suggestion that he locate Toby and take him for a walk.

‘Take the dog for a walk?’ said Seawoll. ‘Why that?’

‘I wanted to try a more complex concept than just a single action, that’s all.’ 

Seawoll got up and poured himself a glass of water. ‘Is it difficult?’

‘Sorry, is what difficult?’

‘What you’ve been doing. The spell. _Seducere_.’

Nightingale sat back in his chair. ‘Controlling humans physically is hard enough, but controlling their agency such that they think their actions are their own... Yes, it is pretty high-order. But, again, not something I would ever use in normal circumstances. Ethical considerations surrounding free will and so on. As I said, very much frowned upon.’

‘Right, right,’ said Seawoll and sat down again. He eyed Nightingale speculatively.

‘What?’

‘I did once hear the name Patrick Gale mentioned.’

Nightingale gave a slightly guilty start. ‘Oh, that.’

Seawoll raised an interrogative eyebrow.

‘Yes, well. That was… well it wasn’t _seducere_ , strictly speaking, and there was no influence imposed, not as such… well physically, yes, in some ways, I suppose, but… And really, it is not as if it was usual practice-‘

Seawoll put him out of his misery. ‘Did he have it coming?’

‘Yes,’ said Nightingale without hesitation. ‘Yes, he absolutely did.’

‘In that case, I applaud your forthright and forward-thinking approach to policing in the community.’

They were still laughing as Molly appeared in the open doorway. Once she had Nightingale’s attention, she looked at him inquiringly and tapped her wrist where a watch would be if she wore one.

Nightingale checked his own watch. ‘Ah Molly. Is it that time already? I’m afraid we got quite caught up.’ He addressed Seawoll. ‘I think we’ve pretty much covered what we need to. Sorry – I hadn’t realised how late it had got.’

Seawoll shrugged. ‘It’s ok. I’d cancelled what I was doing tonight anyway.’

‘In that case – if you have no other plans - would you care to stay for dinner?’ Before Seawoll could answer, he added thoughtfully, ‘Actually, yes. It might not be a bad idea if you were to stay - if you’re amenable, of course. What I mean is, eat a good meal, have a glass of wine perhaps, get into a more relaxed state, and then we could have a try with the glamour again. See if it makes any difference. What do you think? I’m sure Peter would approve if we were to replicate the circumstances of the field so far as possible.’

‘Seems sensible. Why not? I could definitely do with something to eat. So long as that’s not a problem for Molly.’

Nightingale turned towards her. ‘Would that be alright Molly? If Inspector Seawoll were to stay for dinner. Would there be enough?’

Molly raised her eyebrows in incredulity. 

‘Of course. My apologies. Five minutes then?’ She nodded and swept out of the room, with only the barest hint of a hurry in her step.

Nightingale stood. ‘Right. I’ll just pop down to the wine cellar then.’

‘The _wine cellar_ …? I... No. Never mind.’

Nightingale grinned. ‘Well done, Alexander. I commend your restraint. You know where the dining room is don’t you?’

Several minutes later, Nightingale joined him in the smaller dining room, clutching a bottle of Gevrey-Chambertin.

‘Red alright?’ He held out the bottle to Seawoll, who blinked slightly when he saw the label, but said nothing other than ‘Yeah, fine.’

‘I hadn’t laid anything down for some time,' said Nightingale conversationally, 'and, unfortunately, a lot of what was down there from before the war had become undrinkable. But a nice young fellow from Berry’s came round a couple of years ago and helped me clear the rest – bar the odd case. The proceeds of which turned out to be not inconsiderable. And indeed contributed to the cost of our recent refurbishments.’

‘With some of it invested in restocking, I presume?’

Nightingale was hunting for the corkscrew in a drawer. ‘Well it would have been churlish not to.’

Molly entered with her trolley, as Seawoll regarded Nightingale humorously. 

‘Persuasive young chap from the wine merchant, was it?’

Nightingale met him look for look. He uncorked the bottle and took a seat. ‘Not without charm. But I’d say I was admirably restrained.’

Seawoll’s lips twitched. ‘Are we still talking about buying wine?’

Molly had been watching this exchange with interest, and Nightingale was saved from answering as she chose this moment to place in front of each a plate of delicately trimmed lamb cutlets, tiny turned vegetables and an artful splash of a dazzlingly green salsa verde.

Seawoll looked down. ‘Bloody hell, Molly. This looks amazing. Thank you.’ 

She nodded curtly, but looked pleased, and after depositing condiments and a jug of lamb jus on the table, she trundled away again.

Seawoll indicated his plate. ‘I thought Molly was all about the public school nursery food.’

‘She was for many years certainly, but she’s been branching out since Peter’s arrival. As indeed we all have.’ He began pouring the wine – a generous measure into Seawoll’s glass, a much smaller amount in his own. ‘Though I understand that, of late, something called _Masterchef_ has also played a part.’

They dined, and spoke of matters other than the operation at hand; swapping police stories, discussing the progress of their juniors and embarking on a robust and deeply unprofessional analysis of the senior management of the Met. Nightingale kept Seawoll’s wineglass topped up, but left his own.

‘You’re not drinking?’ Seawoll asked at one point.

‘No, not much. More than the smallest amount starts to impede the focus one requires to..’ he made a gesture with his hand.

‘Ah. Right. Well no more for me. The last thing I need tomorrow is a hangover.’

Molly arrived to clear and bring pudding, reverting to form by producing a spotted dick and a vast steaming jug of custard, flecked with vanilla seeds.

Seawoll sighed with contentment. ‘Oh Molly. You’ve just made an old man very happy.’

This time she beamed, hiding her mouth behind one hand. 

‘Thank you, Molly,’ said Nightingale when she returned to clear once more. ‘I think we’re going to sit in here for a little while longer, but I won’t need anything further tonight. Peter and Sahra will be joining us at some point during the course of tomorrow morning and I expect they will stay for lunch.’

She nodded authoritatively, and wheeled her trolley back towards the door.

‘Night Molly,’ said Seawoll.

Nightingale got up and once more moved his chair around the table so that he was sitting next to Seawoll.

‘Now. I think we should try again, don’t you?’

‘Try…? Oh I get you. Yeah, alright then.’

‘How are you feeling? Relaxed?’

‘Very much so.’ He sat back in his chair. 

Nightingale made the movement again and for a couple of minutes they both remained motionless, until Nightingale relaxed his hand.

‘Good. You could still feel it then, I take it?’

Seawoll nodded. ‘Yeah. But maybe, like earlier, because I was ready for it. I was thinking, would it be-‘

He didn’t finish the thought, as Nightingale leaned forward suddenly and put his face closer to Seawoll's as he cast the spell again.

Seawoll’s pupils flared and he gave a small, sharp intake of breath. He wavered, but after only a few seconds recovered.

‘Nice try,’ he said softly. 

Although he’d broken the spell, Nightingale remained where he was, staring at Seawoll with a curious expression. Seawoll regarded him steadily but didn’t move either.

‘If this is part of the test,’ he said after some moments, in the same low tone, ‘I think you should know, Thomas, that I’m an excellent poker player.’

Nightingale blinked slowly, once, then twice. His mouth quirked into a smile. ‘Yes. I'm sure you are.’ 

He drew a breath and sat back in his chair. ‘Notwithstanding which,’ he said, ‘I think you’ve got everything I can usefully show you tonight.’

‘Seems so.’ Released from Nightingale’s gaze, Seawoll shook his head as if to clear it and inhaled deeply also. ‘In that case we’d best call it a night. Unless there’s anything else I need to know before I go?’

‘Nothing that would serve you tomorrow, I don’t think. ’ He cleared his throat. ‘Do you need a lift?’

‘No. Thanks. I’ll walk a bit and then hail a cab. I could do with some air.’ He stood and picked up his jacket.

‘Of course. Well, thank you again for coming,’ said Nightingale, standing also. ‘I hope it’s been of some use.’

‘Yeah.’ He paused, throwing a quick look at Nightingale. ‘It has.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow then. Afterwards. We’ll be nearby of course. Good luck.’

‘I hope I won’t need it, but thanks.’ He put on his jacket. ‘No, it’s alright, I can find my own way out. ‘Night, Thomas,’ he said and left.

  
  



	5. The Pay-off

By Sunday evening, the sunshine of the preceding week had given way to dull and overcast skies. Seawoll’s taxi dawdled as it neared the bottom of St Martin’s Lane. A line of cabs had already formed a queue outside the entrance of the Coliseum and were disgorging patrons in evening dress – mostly white, mostly middle-aged – who commandeered the pavement in a swirl of hellos and air-pecks, obliging curious tourists to detour to the other side of the street.

‘I’ll get out here and walk,’ said Seawoll to the driver, as his cab slowed to a crawl. 

He strolled down towards the theatre, one hand in his pocket.

‘Right then,’ he muttered. ‘Once more into the breach.’ As he approached the glass canopy of the entrance, a figure detached itself from the crowd and advanced towards him.

‘Xander! How pleased I am that you came.’

Martel was wearing an exquisitely-cut tuxedo of midnight blue and smiling broadly as he reached Seawoll. He clasped Seawoll’s arms and kissed him on both cheeks. He stood back beaming and surveyed him.

‘And how debonair you look! I shall be the envy of all.’

Seawoll smiled. ‘I very much doubt that, Laurent, but it’s kind of you to say so.' He swept a glance up and down Martel’s lithe figure. 'You look very fetching yourself.’

‘Pfft! This old thing?’ He waved away the compliment, but looked delighted by it nonetheless. He took Seawoll’s elbow in a tight grasp and began walking him towards the doorway. ‘Come. I have reserved a table in the bar. You know it? The views are spectacular.’

‘You _reserved_ a table?’ said Seawoll pointedly.

‘But, yes,’ exclaimed Martel innocently. Then he grinned. ‘I thought that you would prefer it so.’

Seawoll regarded him with approval. ‘Yes. I would. I’m touched, Laurent.’ They approached the throng at the entrance. ‘Well,’ he said, as they mounted the steps and began edging through the bodies, ‘lead on. With opera in the offing, I feel a martini coming on.’

‘A martini?’ said Martel, twisting around to speak to him. ‘Let me guess: you have extremely specific instructions as to how it is to be mixed.’

Seawoll affected astonishment. ‘But of course I do, Laurent. I’m not a _savage_.’

At the rear of the building, just inside the large loading bay doors, Nightingale was perusing a programme while Peter worked his way through a plate of hors d’oeuvres, both provided by a helpful, if slightly puzzled, front of house manager.

‘I shall count us singularly lucky,’ Nightingale was saying, ‘if Cecelia doesn’t put in an appearance this evening. This is exactly her sort of thing.’ He looked up and frowned. ‘Are you going to leave any of those for me?’

Seawoll took a seat on a padded banquette running the length of one side of a long narrow room. Opposite him was floor to ceiling glass and he could see grey clouds chasing moodily across the sky above Trafalgar Square and the rooftops of Whitehall beyond, down to the river.

He glanced over at the bar where Martel was being served. Perched on a high stool at one end was a young Somali woman, dressed for the evening in a full skirt in shades of sapphire and emerald splashed with flowers the colour of sunshine, a modest blue top and a yellow scarf wound at the back of her head. She was laughing at something the man standing next to her had said; he was about the same age as her, Chinese, and dressed elegantly all in black.

He continued to watch as Martel turned and walked towards him, carrying two very full martini glasses. He placed them carefully on the table and sat down, one knee brushing Seawoll’s. He pushed one of the drinks across the table.

Seawoll looked at it meaningfully. ‘Do we need to…?’

Martel rolled his eyes. ‘Oh Xander. I would have thought we were beyond that. How suspicious you are. And yet, I concede that it may be necessary in your line of business.’ He raised his chin slightly. ‘Which you are, of course, yet to tell me more of.’

‘All in good time, Laurent. But in the meantime…’ 

Martel sighed. ‘Fine. I have no objection.’ He spoke without inflection, as if by rote. ‘Eh bien. Vous pouvez boire librement et sans engagement.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Ok?’

‘Thank you,’ said Seawoll. He lifted his glass. ‘Chin chin.’

‘Santé.’ Martel toasted and they both drank.

Over his shoulder, Seawoll could see the young woman at the bar speaking intermittently to her companion, though he gave no sign of answering her.

‘So,’ said Martel, putting down his glass. ‘How is it?’ He indicated the drink.

‘I’ve had worse.’

‘Will it be sufficiently fortifying, do you think?’

Seawoll smiled. ‘Only time will tell.’

‘You do not visit the opera often then?’

‘Not as often as I used to.’

‘No, well, the conflagration of one of your opera houses will have had some bearing on that, hein?’ 

‘You could say that.’

Martel considered him closely. ‘Oh. Xander. You were there?’

After a beat, Seawoll nodded.

‘Vraiment? I am sorry for it. I know one or two who were there also that night.’ He fell silent for a few moments, brow furrowed.

‘Hnnh,’ he made a noise of contempt. ‘That is what happens when matters are allowed to get out of hand.’ He sounded genuinely appalled. ‘But, it is not… I am sorry, Xander.’ He touched his hand briefly. ‘Let us speak of something else.’

‘Let’s.’ Seawoll took a large gulp of his drink. ‘How was your weekend, Laurent?’

‘Oof,’ he raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Hectic. Running around, here and everywhere, trying to see many people before I leave London.’

‘Oh? When do you plan on returning to… exactly where _do_ you live, Laurent?’

Martel smiled conspiratorially. ‘Around. Tu comprends?’

Seawoll smiled back. ‘I do. It’s a very desirable neighbourhood, I understand.’

‘It is. But the rents are extortionate.’

‘I can believe it. Well then, if you are to leave soon we must make the most of the time we have available.’

Martel’s knee knocked against Seawoll’s again under the table. ‘But of course. And in addition, we ought perhaps to continue our discussion of your so-interesting business proposition.’

He sat back in his chair and crossed one tastefully-shod leg over the other. ‘Alors. I am to understand, am I not, that there may be one of the objects I am seeking-’

‘And how has that been going, Laurent?’ interrupted Seawoll. ‘Your search, I mean. Have your numerous meetings brought forth any other promising leads in that respect?’

Martel came close to pouting. ‘They have not. You speak the truth, Xander, when you say they are as – what was it? – hens’ teeth. A very apt comparison. I have had no luck in that quarter at all. Aside from, of course, my very great fortune in meeting you.’

‘So,’ Seawoll twirled the stem of his glass, ‘no other offers then?’

Martel grinned. ‘I could play the game, Xander, and counterfeit that I have had many dozens laid at my feet as offerings. But,’ he paused, and looked directly at Seawoll, ‘I find I am not inclined to do so. You are, if you will forgive the analogy, Xander, the only game in town.’ He smiled. ‘As I must think you were already aware. And so, if you will forgive my directness, it would be kind if you could let me have some indication of what might be, ah, on the table.’

Seawoll smiled. ‘Laurent, we have been honest with each other so far – within reason of course,’ Martel raised his glass in acknowledgment, ‘and I think that - without too much obfuscation - we have settled the general terms of what _I_ could bring to this arrangement. However, I’m still not entirely sure what it is that _you_ are committing to, and so, until such time…’

Martel looked quizzical. ‘You are saying..?’

‘Simply this: I’m going to need something in return before I go any further.’

Martel gave a small laugh despite himself. ‘Ah Xander, you are a hard taskmaster, to be sure.’

‘Well,’ Seawoll appeared to consider the point. ‘I _could_ be. If you ask me nicely.’

At the bar, the young woman seemed to sway and almost lose her balance, her companion catching her just in time. 

Martel was bereft of words for several seconds. Seawoll finished his drink.

Martel closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. ‘So. Let us get the business out of the way, then we may concentrate on… more important matters.’ He resettled himself, and looked across at Seawoll seriously. ‘I will tell you what I am able, I can commit to no more.’

Seawoll spread his hands. ‘That’s all I ask, Laurent.’

Martel gave a small snort. ‘Fine. Go.’

‘What can you get?’

‘Ce depends. Not much.’

‘If I wanted something here, in the UK, would that be possible?’

He shrugged. ‘Yes.’

‘In Russia?’

Martel laughed. ‘Definitely.’

‘Can we control the quality? The size?’

‘No. It is what it is.’

‘Lead-in time?’

Martel began to look bored. ‘It has not been a problem so far. But no one has been in so great a hurry.’ 

‘Hmm. Well that may change.’ He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Martel held up a finger. 

‘No. That is enough for now, Xander.’ A bell rang, signalling the imminent start of the performance. ‘So,’ he said, ‘we have an agreement?’

Seawoll nodded. ‘It would appear that we do.’ People began drifting towards the auditorium.

‘Good,’ said Martel with feeling. ‘And _now_ , we may enjoy the rest of our evening.’ He placed his hand on Seawoll’s. ‘With no further - how is it? - talk of shop?

Seawoll smiled warmly at him. ‘Absolutely.’ 

‘Bon.’ He gave Seawoll’s hand a squeeze and stood. ‘Come. Let me get you another drink to take in.’ He winked. ‘You may require it.’

An hour and a quarter later, Prince Tamino had located his lost love, but his ordeals were far from over, magic flute notwithstanding. The doors to the auditorium opened and the multitudes were released to go in search of alcoholic sustenance.

‘I believe it’s my round,’ said Seawoll, turning to Martel in the tide of people heading to the bar.

‘Merci.’ Martel pulled out his phone perfunctorily and glanced at it. ‘Merde,’ he muttered.

‘Laurent?’

He bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry, Xander. But there is a call I must make. One moment?’

Seawoll put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and get the drinks.’

He stood waiting to be served. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the couple from earlier standing by a table in a corner of the room. Staring directly ahead, he could see Martel reflected in the mirror behind the bar. 

He was speaking swiftly, and looking increasingly agitated. He started to pace a little, in the small amount of space available in the very crowded room, ignoring the scandalised looks from those on either side of him.

As Seawoll watched, he pulled a scrap of paper from his inside pocket and, cradling the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, scribbled something on it. He spoke for a few minutes more, as Seawoll paid and turned back towards him with two glasses of Champagne.

‘Oui, oui.’ He raised his eyebrows in exasperated apology, and then snorted. ‘N’importe quoi!’ He rolled his eyes and turned away. ‘Eh?.... Quand-même,’ he said in disgust, and then blew out a long breath. ‘Oui,’ he said resignedly, turning back to Seawoll. ‘Ok.... À demain.’

He hung up. ‘Xander. I am sorry. That was unforgivably rude.’

‘Not to worry,’ he said benignly. ‘Here.’ He handed a glass to Martel. ‘You look like you need it.’

‘Thank you.’ He took it and drained half the contents. ‘Xander, I.. Please accept my apologies. I have been called away. I must go.’ 

‘You have to leave tonight?’

‘I do.’

‘That’s… Well, that is a shame.’ Seawoll looked concerned. ‘Can you at least stay for the second act?’

‘No. I do not believe so. Dommage.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I am sorry, Xander.’

‘Oh well,’ said Seawoll rallyingly. ‘These things happen.’

‘Huh. I suppose. You may believe that missing the performance is not my main disappointment.’ He clicked his tongue in annoyance and looked away, then took a deep breath and turned back to Seawoll. ‘I could make time for one more drink perhaps. If you would care to join me? For,’ he checked the time, ‘half an hour or so. We could adjourn to the members’ bar. The views are not quite so good, but it is a little more discreet.’ He drained the rest of his drink. ‘It would mean you foregoing the second half.’

‘Well,’ said Seawoll. ‘I would miss the best aria, of course.’ Martel nodded. ‘But I _have_ seen it before,’ he leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘I know how it ends. So,’ he said, straightening up ‘why not?’

Martel smiled, good-humour partially restored. ‘Excellent. And trust me, Xander, this is not how I expected this evening to end. I had planned.. oh well, it is of no matter now. Let us at least enjoy one more drink together.’ 

‘Yes, let’s do that. I just need to..’ and he indicated in the direction of the gents.

‘Oh, of course. I will wait here.’

Seawoll touched him lightly on the arm as he edged past in the throng. ‘Back in a sec.’

He entered the toilets as the bell for the second half went, and the crowds started moving again. He checked that the stalls were empty, and then stood in front of the mirror adjusting his tie.

‘Ok,’ he said aloud to the empty room. ‘You got all that. I’m going up to the members’ bar now. Sahra, go back in with Michael and take your seats. Unless you hear otherwise, leave with everyone else and go home the way you would normally. Thomas, I’ll see you and Peter out back when I’m done. Shouldn’t be too much longer I wouldn’t have thought.’

‘It’s gone quiet,’ said Nightingale suddenly. ‘Why is it so quiet?’

Peter listened carefully. ‘I think he’s taken off the wire, guv.’

‘Taken off the..’ repeated Nightingale incredulously. ‘Why on earth would he want to do that?’

‘Um, to stop it being found would be my best guess.’

‘But why? Where was it?’

Peter frowned. ‘Under his shirt is usual.’

‘I see,’ said Nightingale in a tight voice.

Nothing further was heard on the line from Seawoll’s mic and Sahra’s relayed only a distorted version of the singers onstage, as if they were performing underwater. It wasn’t until almost an hour later that the fire door into the loading bay banged open and Seawoll strolled through.

‘Evening all.’

Peter started forward. ‘Has he gone?’

‘Yeah. He said he was catching the last train to Paris, but I think that’s bollocks personally. In any event, he’s on his way-’ He broke off. ‘Why is the Jag in here?’

‘Because there was nowhere else to park it,’ said Nightingale. ‘Does it matter?’

Seawoll shrugged. ‘’Spose not.’

Peter interjected. ‘Sir, did you…?’

‘Get anything else? Yes, lad. As a matter of fact I did.’ He held out his phone to Peter, who took it. The screen was illuminated. Nightingale stepped up to look over his shoulder.

‘The phone call he made in the interval – did Sahra tell you about that? The one that summoned him back to fuck knows where.’

‘Yeah,’ Peter nodded, not taking his eyes from the screen. It showed, in slightly blurred outline, a white rectangle against an indistinct background. It was a photograph of a business card.

The image was not the sharpest, but it looked like the card was good quality stock. Embossed on it was the stylised head of a wolf in dark grey. Nothing else was printed on it, but scrawled across the top, in thick black ink, was a series of numbers - ten in all, separated by dashes. The first three were 831.

Nightingale looked inquiringly at Seawoll.

‘ _That_ is what he scribbled while he was on the phone.’ He smothered a yawn. ‘I suspect you may find it of some relevance to your investigation.’

‘Is it a landline?’ said Peter.

‘Could well be.’

‘But how did you..?’

‘How did I what?’

‘How did you get it, sir?’

Seawoll gave him a level look. ‘By being bloody good at my job.’ Peter passed the phone to Nightingale so he could take a closer look. 

‘I could have just lifted it, of course, but then he’d’ve known it was gone. Meaning I had to wait until I could slip it back.’

‘Nice,’ said Peter approvingly. 

Seawoll gave a small bow. ’Thank you. So,’ he said, ‘what've we learned?’ 

Peter considered. ‘They’re produced in the US. Martel doesn’t control manufacture, just ships them.’

’Seems about the size of it.’

Nightingale looked up. ‘How did you leave matters?’ he said. ‘With Martel and your.. business proposal.’

‘I gave him my number. Said he could get in touch if he wanted to pursue it. Or rather, I gave him this number.’ He pulled the burner phone out of his pocket and tossed it to Peter. ‘You might as well hang on to it, see if anything comes through. I’d like to say you won’t get any mucky pictures, but I can’t guarantee it.’ He gave a small stretch. ‘And now, gentlemen, I believe my work here is done.’

Nightingale handed his phone back to him. Seawoll tapped the screen a few times. ‘There,’ he said, ‘I’ve emailed it to you.’

Peter’s phone pinged in his pocket and he took it out. He studied the image again. ‘I bet that’s a US area code.’

‘It’s certainly plausible,’ agreed Seawoll. ‘You might want to run it by your pal Kimberley in the first instance.’

‘Yeah,’ Peter nodded. ‘Yeah. I’ll do that.’ He started edging towards the exit. ‘Probably best if I do it from the tech cave.’ He addressed Nightingale. ‘Do you need me for anything else?’

‘No, I don’t think so. You go, try to get hold of Agent Reynolds. I’ll give Inspector Seawoll a lift home.’

‘Yeah. I’ll go now then, if that’s ok.’ He looked over at Seawoll. ‘Thanks again, Inspector.’

He nodded. ‘All part of the service.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow then?’ Nightingale assented and Peter peered carefully around the loading bay doors before setting off at a smart pace. 

Nightingale turned to Seawoll and raised his eyebrows. ‘I suppose you know how dangerous that was?’

‘Yes, Thomas, I do. That’s why I didn’t do anything foolish.’

Nightingale regarded him for several moments. ‘Well I must take your word for it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I must also add my thanks to Peter’s for what you’ve done for us this evening. This may make all the difference.’

‘No problem.’ He undid his bow tie and loosened his collar, letting out a long breath. ‘I am knackered though. Being incredibly attractive is exhausting.’

Nightingale smiled. ‘It must be a great trial.’

‘You have no idea.’

‘I’m sure. But, on that note, I, er, hope that.. well, that…’

‘Spit it out, Thomas.’

He looked at Seawoll. ‘I hope you weren’t obliged to do anything untoward to obtain the card.’

He smiled. ‘No. I wasn’t. There was a fair amount of Gallic sighing in my earhole and a little light forearm-stroking before he expressed profound regret and took himself off.’

‘Then why remove the microphone?’

‘Because you never know. And I wasn’t about to go to all this effort just to blow cover at the last minute.’ He paused. ‘I think he was actually too preoccupied with whatever that call was about to give me his completely undivided attention.’

‘What would you have done,' Nightingale asked curiously, 'if he’d whisked you off to supper in some private room or other?’

He shrugged. ‘Played it by ear. And then most likely invented an emergency of my own.’ He looked at Nightingale. ‘What would you have done?’

Nightingale pondered. ‘Probably the same. But it’s academic of course. I don’t share your devastating allure.’

‘True.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway, at least we got something out of it in the end. But that’s it for me I reckon.’ He walked around to the passenger side of the car. ‘Isn’t it time you gave me that lift home you promised?’

‘Yes, of course.’ He moved to the driver’s side. ‘It’s unlocked.’

‘Is it?’ Seawoll was pulling the door handle. ‘It doesn’t seem to be.’

‘Really? Try again?’

‘No. It’s not budging.’

‘That’s strange. Alright.’ He moved swiftly around the car, and bent and examined the handle. ‘It seems-‘ He tried it and it opened. ‘There. That’s it. Not sure why…’ He looked up. Seawoll was leaning against the Jag watching, but made no move to get in. 

Nightingale straightened and looked at him. They stood between the wall of the loading bay and the car, parked up as it was at the side. There was little light except the sodium of the streetlights leaking in from the outside.

Neither moved. After about half a minute, Nightingale closed the car door again, taking him half a step closer to Seawoll.

‘You appear to be standing quite close to me, Thomas,’ he said, after another few moments had passed.

‘Ah,’ said Nightingale. ‘That will be the years of detective experience I’ve heard so much about.’

Seawoll laughed softly. ‘No doubt.’ He angled his head and regarded Nightingale. ‘Is it perhaps because you’re going to try to influence me again?’

Nightingale hesitated. ‘Would I need to?’ he said carefully.

‘No,’ said Seawoll. ‘I don’t believe that would be necessary.’

‘Good,’ said Nightingale.

They smiled at each other in the dim light.

Up in the security office, Sadiq reached down into his bag. Almost eleven o’clock. Time for a snack.

Ever since his operation, Sharm had policed his meals implacably, and now insisted on packing all his food for every shift. He pulled out an ageing Tupperware box, casting an eye over the screens as he did so. Last stragglers from the reception leaving by the front door. Bar staff packing up and putting on coats, a couple of the waiting staff having a fag by the side entrance. The main cleaning staff would be in in the morning. 

That car was still there he noticed. Something to do with the police, Deon had said, though what the police wanted with a Sunday night charity performance was anyone’s guess. It hadn’t been public, whatever it was. Still, the place would be empty soon, and they’d have to go then surely. He peered at the screen. There was just two of them left by the look of it, standing and talking by the car they’d parked inside the loading bay. He shook his head. What a stupid thing to do.

He cracked the lid of his lunchbox and poked pessimistically into its contents. Sandwiches. In that brown bread he’d never tell Sharm tasted of nothing but sawdust, with the usual boring heart-healthy filling. A pear. A small bag of nuts - unsalted of course – and then.. what was this? A Tunnocks caramel wafer, under a post-it with a little smiley face drawn on. 

Not for the first time, Sadiq blessed his wife. But - pear or wafer? Pear. Or wafer?

He decided. He’d eat half the wafer, have the pear as penance, and save the other half as a treat for later.

Decision made, he began carefully cutting the wafer in half. Knife poised, he looked up to do another check of the screens. More areas in darkness, which was usual, as staff left and the lights were turned off.

He was about to turn back to the wafer when he did a double-take. Was that...? He looked again. He could have sworn he’d just seen those two in the loading bay embracing. But, that couldn’t… Surely not. He stared at the screen again. No, they were getting into the car now, the slighter one walking round to the driver’s side. As he watched, the headlights came on and it backed up – a nice old Jag now he could see it properly – and then out of the doors onto Mays Court. He shook his head. He must be imagining things. Probably his blood sugar was low.

Well. He knew how to rectify that.

**EPILOGUE – THREE OR FOUR WEEKS LATER**

‘… So we’re waiting for the Santa Cruz lot to come through with the paperwork, but… it’s looking promising. Or more than it was anyway.’

Seawoll nodded. ‘That’s good. Any news of Martel?’

‘Nah. Not a thing.’ Peter smiled mischievously. ‘And he hasn’t sent any love notes through to the burner either.’

Seawoll put his head on one side. ‘Very funny. Remind me of that the next time you want a favour, won’t you?’

Peter looked suitably abashed. ‘Guv.’

‘Well,’ said Seawoll. ‘I appreciate the update, but I do need to get on. Sahra – Stephanopoulos has been looking for you. That DI from Fraud has been on the blower again.’

Sahra rolled her eyes and got up. ‘On it.’

Peter stood also. ‘I need to get off as well. I’ll see you at the Folly later?’ He spoke to Nightingale.

‘I should think so.’

‘Ok then. Sir,’ he nodded to Seawoll and followed Sahra out of the office.

Nightingale pushed himself off the wall against which he’d been standing. ‘I’ll be on my way also. Here-‘ He pulled a wristwatch from his pocket and held it out discreetly. ‘You left this behind this morning.’

Seawoll took it. ‘Ah. I thought I might have. Thanks.’

He leaned against his desk as he put it on, then looked up at Nightingale. 

‘What are we doing, Thomas?’

Nightingale smiled. ‘Ah now, someone did tell me once. What was it? Oh yes: “something utterly fucking bizarre”.’

Across the corridor, in her office, Miriam wondered what the sudden laughter was about.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was brought to you by “Rocket Fuel” by DJ Shadow feat De La Soul. When the film of it unspools in my head, that soundtracks the inevitable montage scene.
> 
> Thanks to my husband for unexpected - but extremely capable - beta work.
> 
> (If anyone is interested, Martel looks a lot like Romain Duris.)
> 
> Title - randomly - from _Hamilton_.


End file.
